


Foreign Queen

by Ramzes



Series: Targaryens: Times of Glory [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 56,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, he'll be called King Daeron the Good but now, he's just a young man anxiously waiting to meet his foreign bride. To him, Myriah Martell is only a name and a promise of peace. Will she ever be something more? With the release of TWoIaF, now officially non-canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

"The ship is coming!" the young squire cried out as soon as he entered the great hall where the nobility of Westeros was dining.

"Are they mad?"

For first time in many a month Daeron could fully agree with his father. The wind was blowing so hard that the gates of the Red Keep started rattling as soon as the servants opened them, so they had had them closed. A ship in the sea… he didn't want to start imagining what that might mean to the passengers. And the weather had been like this in days, it wasn't as if the newcomers couldn't have stopped in one of the ports and waited for it to get better."

Unfortunately, Prince Aegon then said exactly what he shouldn't have. "What are they _thinking_? We are expecting a bride and right now, it looks that Dorne might have sent us a coffin..."

Princess Naerys shuddered and looked at her husband with silent reproach that he, of course, ignored. The Hand glared and started to say something but the King preempted him. "No," he said softly. "The Seven desire this union which will heal the rifts. They're keeping the Princess safe."

Not for a first time, Daeron wondered whether King Baelor really believed what he said. The world was not a place kept happy and protected by the Seven – a simple walk in King's Landing would show this to anyone. Anyone who wasn't Baelor, in fact. He seemed not to notice the hunger, the injustice, the widowed mothers thrown out without means to feed their babes. Or if he did, he believed that prayers and piety would fix everything. _His intentions are good, though,_ Daeron thought. At least they were good. Daeron was less than pleased when his father mocked the King in private or sometimes, even to his face – never in Daeron's grandfather's presence, though – but he could not deny that Aegon was right: for all the love Daeron bore him, Baelor was somewhat off. Daeron respected the King's strive for peace but he could not count on piety alone. Right now, it seemed that the Seven could use an excellent shipmaster to keep Princess Myriah safe.

Myriah…

What did she look like? What _was_ she like? Of course, he'd wed her even if she had had the greyscale, and consider himself lucky. Westeros came first, always. Any marriage that would bring peace with these stubborn Dornishmen was a good thing. And still… soon, he'd meet a woman descended from the very people who had nearly annihilated the army of Westeros. A woman who would be so… foreign, in accent, view of life, manners. Would the two of them would ever be able to get along with each other? Care about each other?

"Your Grace," Viserys Targaryen spoke. "If the Dornish had decided to keep going in such weather, I think we should go to the quay and meet them."

Baelor nodded, as Daeron knew he would. Torn between disgruntlement at being forced to go out in the raging storm and eagerness to see the foreign princess who would one day be their Queen, the lords and ladies headed for the doors.

"Maybe it would be better if you wait here, Lady Mother," Daeron said under his breath to Naerys who was never one to take cold well.

She looked at him and smiled. "And what start of a relationship with my new gooddaughter would that be if I stay here instead of welcoming her? Don't worry, Daeron, I'll be fine."

He looked at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but Aemon's eyes remained fastened on the King he was guarding. No help from here. Daeron could only hope that his mother's attendants would dress her as best as they could against the wind.

The word had already spread: it seemed that the whole King's Landing was already aware that the Princess was coming; despite the weather, the streets were black with people and the guards had to cut a path, literally, for the King and his entourage.

"So, they are not as mad as I thought them," Aegon murmured when the huge ship did not enter the narrow entry of the port – in this storm it would be a very risky thing. Instead, the ship came to anchor not far away from it and immediately saluted King's Landing with seven salvos.

From the Red Keep, the replying gunfires came.

Tens of barges had been prepared to take the Westerosi nobles to the ships but in this storm, there was little chance that any of them would reach the ship intact. No, they would have to wait until the wind slowed down to formally welcome the Dornish Princess into their city. It couldn't be that long – a few hours, a day at most.

To Daeron, this small delay suddenly seemed longer than all the months of preparations, all the years since when still a child, he'd been told that one day, he'd wed a Martell princess for the good of the realm.

"Your Grace," someone suddenly spoke almost next to him. The Admiral. He was formally addressing the King but everyone knew who he was really turning to. "The weather is not kind to us, I fear but I still feel it's my duty to welcome the Princess and her people to King's Landing, so I ask for your permission to take a boat and go to the ship in your name."

Naerys looked at the storm and shook her head in wonder that anyone would be willing to challenge the wind and the huge waves that shook the rocky coast.

"Are you really so intent of dying?" Aegon asked, mildly interested. "It'll take a while for us to find a new admiral, I fear, so you'd better reconsider that."

Alyn Velaryon was, however, looking at the King's Hand expectantly. Viserys slowly nodded. "I think it fitting," he said and looked at his nephew. "Your Grace?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the King agreed. "We need to show Princess Myriah how welcome she is here and how anxiously we've been waiting for her arrival."

"Astonishingly," Aegon murmured, so only Daeron and Naerys could hear him. "That's two whole sentences without the Seven being mentioned somehow."

Naerys sighed and Daeron clenched his teeth, something that happened to him often in his father's company. Then, he looked at the Admiral, at the raging storm and the proud ship and made a decision all of a sudden.

"I am coming with you, my Lord Admiral," he said.

"No!" his mother said, sharply. "You aren't."

But this time, he paid her no mind. She was the most important woman in his life but there was another one waiting, so close and so far at the same time – another one who he couldn't wait to see, to find out what she was like. Show her that she'd welcome, Baelor had said. Well, Daeron had the chance to show her that.

His father gaped at him, for once dropping his scornful expression. The King smiled. Viserys looked thoughtful, as if he was thorn but finally, he nodded briefly. Naerys' face fell.

"I won't tell you how dangerous it is, Your Grace," the Admiral spoke softly as soon as they were out of earshot, headed for one of the boats. The oarsmen were already there, ready to depart. "I think you can see it for yourself."

"That's right," Daeron agreed, taking in the thunderbolts, the pouring rain, the roar of the sea. He was by no means a man who loved danger and taking risks when none needed to be taken but there were some things a man could do only once in his life. If he missed this chance, he might never get another one.

Now, a mighty cheer rose over the coast: the people of King's Landing loved their kind and thoughtful prince and the Admiral was a war hero, a great man in his own right, so seeing them challenging fate in such way could not fail to get the sympathies of the crowd.

That, however, made their one-hour-long journey – which should have been no longer than half an hour, at most, at any other day – no less cold, wet and, frankly, terrifying. At one moment, the Admiral shove a rope into the Prince's hands before running to the oarsmen to help them. Despite the fact that he had never held such a thing in his life, Daeron didn't let go and didn't even think of questioning Lord Velaryon's authority or taking offence at his tone, about as respectful to Daeron as to the sailors.

"Dayne must be feeling murderous," the Admiral called out, grinning, between two rolls of thunder. "Had he not been for his noble passenger, he would have entered the port but now, he had to act cautiously. He'll feel it keenly."

Yes, if it was up to Alyn Velaryon, Dayne would. It was weird, what the man thought about in the middle of a storm that might cost them their lives. Was it the right time to settle scores with his Dornish counterpart?!...

A new wave came crushing over them but they were now closer to the ship; two boats left it to came to their aid and they boarded the ship wet, shaking and haggard but alive. They were met with a thunderous cheer.

The Dornish Admiral, lord Edric Dayne, came to meet them as soon as they set foot on the deck; slightly surprised, Daeron noticed that he had the fair hair and purple eyes of the Targaryens and Velaryons, although, as far as Daeron knew, the Daynes were not of Valyrian blood. He also saw the look of guarded appreciation that the two Admirals and old rivals gave each other. _They have fought against each other for years,_ he thought. _One day, I'll make them fight together, for further glory of both Westeros and Dorne._

"Your Grace," the Dornishman said. "Welcome to Dorne."

Daeron nodded, deeply impressed by the man's dignity. Maybe there was more to Dornishmen than snake traps?

Maybe there was more to Myriah Martell than a treaty for peace?

He would find out soon.


	2. In the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are now safely on the board. But with the history between Westeros and Dorne, things are far from safe. And Myriah is quite pleasing. But is she pleased?

The entire crew, from the master of the ship to the cooks, had come out to see the two arrivals. The word that one of them was the Targaryen prince himself spread like forest fire and Daeron walked the way to the upper deck between two rows of curious looks and whispers. It was hardly something he was unused to but he had to constantly remind himself that it would not be fitting for him to stare.

At the far end of the desk, there was a canopy with the sun and spear burning bright against the grey sky. There was a huge retinue gathered there and Daeron threw a secret look at everyone… everyone but the two figures sitting under the canopy. He was suddenly too scared to actually have his first look at the one he'd be sharing his life with from now on.

"Your Grace," Lord Dayne said. "May I present my lord, Mors Martell, Prince of Dorne?"

The Martell prince was in his twenties, olive-skinned and lean. He nodded regally and Daeron approved inwardly: the prince was the heir of a current ruler, so it could be only right that he did not bow to Daeron.

"And this is my lady Myriah, Princess of Dorne."

Now, there was no escape: he had to look at her. He looked at her direction and was more than a little pleased to see that she had risen to greet him. Technically, he had entered Dorne at boarding the ship so no one would have considered it bad manners if she had stayed seated. But it felt nice to see that she hadn't.

Myriah's ladies gathered behind her. Stunned, Daeron saw that she was the shortest one of all, not much taller than a child. Yet there was nothing childlike about her figure: she seemed to have all the womanly curves required. She was even slightly on the plump side. Daeron was used to frail looking women of pale hair and violet eyes, dressed in rich velvets and Myrosh lace. His betrothed was nothing like them: under the diamond tiara, her hair was black and curling, her eyes were huge and dark, surrounded by thick eyelashes. Her skin had the soft sheen of a golden fruit. Daeron had never seen such a complexion. For a moment of insanity, he wondered whether the golden powder would fall if he scrubbed her skin hard enough.

She curtsied and he bowed over her hand. Later, he would realize that he might have held it more tightly then required. But Myriah didn't seem to mind. Her hand was warm and slightly shaking – a sign that for all her outward composure, she was just as anxious as him. Suddenly feeling like her protector already, Daeron held her hand a little longer, trying to convey a feeling of security. She smiled gratefully; when he looked at her, she blushed. Stunned, Daeron realized that she didn't do even that like any other woman he knew – her cheeks did not turn rosy or scarlet. Instead, the dark golden tone of her skin deepened and she became… brownish? He looked at her fingers, long and elegant, with the ruby in gold on her fourth finger. The golden powder had not fallen, of course – it was no powder. He looked around stealthily and saw that a few of the other ladies had such a complexion, too.

"My lady," he said. "I am honoured to finally meet you. I wanted to convey to you in person the greetings of King Baelor and my entire family."

She smiled formally, revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. "My lord, your welcome makes me feel as if His Grace is here in person and this kingdom is my home."

Her drawl was barely understandable but for a moment, Daeron thought he heard a note of fear in her voice. After all, he only needed to accommodate her in his life. But she… she had left the life as she knew it to come to a new one. To her, everything would be new. It was only normal that it would also be frightening. "It is, my lady," he said. "From now on, your home will be with me and you have my word that I'll make everything in my power to make it to your liking."

Myriah murmured gratitude, although she didn't know if she could quite trust him, of course but there was nothing he could do to reassure her that he meant it. Not yet.

Then, the various members of the Dornish entourage were presented to him. He tried to be as polite as he could given the fact that he was almost shaking in the cold day. But then, they were shaking fully in their heavy cloaks. It made sense – he remembered people talking about how hot it was at Dorne. Even his Uncle Aemon had said that the nicest thing they could do for the Princess would be to install bigger fireplaces in her chambers.

How many Dornish nobles had come to King's Landing, anyway? It looked like half of Dorne had come to celebrate the wedding. More important, how many of them were going to stay? According to his father, the agreed number was too high. _What, she'll be allowed to make a little Dorne here now?_ Aegon often murmured, disgruntled. Daeron himself was of the mind that in regards to this particular point, the King had been too agreeable.

"Your Grace," Admiral Velaryon spoke. "It's time for us to go back."

It was a reasonable suggestion because the day was getting darker and the storm fiercer. If they didn't leave now, they soon might be unable to leave at all. "I am ready, my lord Admiral," Daeron said and turned back to make his farewells.

To his surprise, Princess Myriah had risen from her seat. "I am ready," she announced.

Daeron looked at her, astounded. Then, he smiled and she replied with a smile of her own – not a formal one but a smile that lit up her entire face. All of a sudden, she had turned into a beautiful woman. He was irresistibly drawn to the resolution she was accepting her unknown fate with.

Mors Martell looked at his sister and then his admiral. Lord Dayne slowly went close to both Daeron and Myriah. "I humbly beg Your Grace's pardon," he said. "But now, it is impossible for the Princess to go ashore. The weather is too bad. As my lord Velaryon surely knows, this storm is likely to subside in a few hours, so we'll be able to disembark this evening."

"Of course I know that," Alyn Velaryon said without even bothering to hide his irritation. "But there is still time before the storm hits fully. We came here against the wind; I think the Princess won't be in greater danger if she sails down the wind. I have experience and I assure you, she'll be completely safe in my care."

For a moment, Daeron and Myriah's eyes met; in the black depths of hers, he saw an urge to laugh out loud and he shared the sentiment. What Velaryon clearly wanted to say was, _I've been sailing Westerosi seas since before you were weaned, little boy, so you'd better shut up. I can take better care of your princess than you can ever hope to take._ Of course, it was not funny at all – it was hardly the most auspicious beginning of the new alliance – but well… it was amusing to watch.

"I commend your bravery, my lord," Dayne said. "I imagine that you were very willing to convey His Grace's welcomes. And the Prince, of course, was impatient to meet his future lady wife. I'll hold you as a model to my crew. Not to the Princess, though. I promised to my lord the Prince of Dorne that I'd deliver his daughter safe and sound at King's Landing and I'll keep my word."

So much for the much acclaimed peace. _We'll be lucky if we make it to the wedding feast before war breaks out,_ Daeron thought. _What were we thinking, that peace was ever possible!_ He knew Lord Velaryon well enough to know that the Admiral was now regretting the impulse that had driven him to reaction – surely he could not help but see that the weather got worse by the minute. But he could not draw back now – if he did it would look as if his Dornish counterpart was right in his suspicions about Velaryon's ability to deliver Myriah Martell safely ashore. His pride would not allow it.

There was only one way for everyone to come off with flying colours and fortunately, Mors Martell found it. "We'll be honoured if His Grace stays to dine with us," he said. "We could get to know each other better. Of course, the same applies to you, my lord Admiral. And when the day clears, we'll all disembark together.'

This was a chance for both sides to preserve their dignity, so Daeron accepted readily before the Admiral could open his mouth and maybe give some offence without meaning to… or fully meaning to.

"Very well!" Mors Martell clapped his hands. "Then, we'll have you escorted to two cabins so you can prepare yourselves for the feast."

Daeron declined the servant he was offered – prince or not, he could wipe himself dry and change on his own. He accepted the clothes they prepared for him but he would not change his cloak in red and black and he stood near the fireplace so it could dry. It had barely started when the door came ajar and in peeked two big curious eyes. Daeron smiled. "Come in," he said and the boy came in fully. He was richly clad in black and orange and had an air of confidence about him that immediately told Daeron who he was.

"You are Maron Martell, aren't you?" he asked and the boy nodded. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," his visitor announced. He couldn't be more than three but his speech was already quite clear, for a Dornishman anyway. He looked at Daeron up and down and frowned.

"What?" Daeron asked. "What is it?" He didn't have any siblings and he had no experience with children. This one was innerving him, with his grave scrutiny.

"Boys have smooth faces," Maron Martell announced.

Daeron blinked. "Well, yes. And what of that?"

"Old men have no hair and when they do, it's white," Maron went on.

Daeron was still not following him. "Well, yes," he said again and immediately felt stupid.

Maron gave him a last look of inquiry before he gave up. "Are you so very old?" he asked, obviously unsure whether Daeron was a boy or an old man.

Daeron instinctively raised a hand to his hair. Then put it down. Looked at the small face that was so very serious and perplexed. And laughed.


	3. Ashore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting between the Dornish princess and the Targaryen royals leaves much to be desired for.

_A few hours later…_

When it was time to go ashore from the barge that had taken them from the ship, Daeron was fairly certain he knew why people had so many children when two or three would suffice: if Maron Martell was anything to go by, they needed as many of those as possible if they were to hope that they steer at least half of them safely to adolescence. Or maybe Dornishmen just didn't do it _right_. Either way, the boy was a danger to himself, with his excitement of traveling so close to the water. He wanted to dip his – too short – hands in the sea. He wanted to ride on the white foam. He wanted to swim. He wanted to jump from the boat because he was sure he'd reach the shore faster than the boat… _Why did they have to bring him along?_ Daeron wondered. _That's a recipe for disaster. There is no way that they'd keep him safe all the time._ If the nursemaid – and in one occasion, Myriah – hadn't been so quick and watchful, Maron would have fallen from the other side of the board at least three times. He was a danger to himself. Daeron could only hope that his children with Myriah would be better-behaved. He couldn't remember any such behavior on his own part as a child. But then, of course, he couldn't remember anything from the time he had been Maron's age. The fact that his children would be half-Dornish was not a great help, either.

Finally, Mors Martell lost patience and snapped an order to his son, just once, but harshly enough to make the boy sit down, albeit it didn't stop him from squirming. _Ah so it is possible, after all,_ Daeron thought, now amused and slightly relieved. If Mors Martell could control his child, Daeron could certainly learn that, also.

Now that the storm had been chased away, everyone, from King to fishermen, was eager to see the foreign bride. The cannons of the Red Keep echoed incessantly; the Dornish ship returned the salutes. In the bright sky, huge clouds of smoke were trying to conceal the sun and failing.

Daeron stepped out of the boat and offered a hand to Myriah; she gathered her skirts in one hand and took his hand with the other with no hesitation. For a moment, her fingers gripped his in painful grasp and Daeron felt the full extent of her fear. But her face betrayed nothing and she recovered so swiftly that he wondered whether he had imagined it. Holding to his hand, Myriah set foot on the land that was still so foreign and new to her but was already her own country.

The crowds cheered wildly and surged forward to get a better look. A shout reverberated in the air, "Long live Myriah! Long live the bride!"

The Princess smiled and looked around, nodding affably. Daeron was surprised when she looked at him and said, "It seems that you are well loved, my lord. It gladdens me to see it."

She had gotten it. She had understood that the joyful welcome was not only because of the novelty of hers or because of the newfound peace. She realized that a part of it was the love that the people of King's Landing bore their young prince. In this moment, they loved her because they loved him. It would fall to her to prove that she was worthy of their love, later. Daeron was pleased to see that she did not lack wits and was not blinded by the crowd's adulation.

The royal family waited safely away from the waterline. Myriah was about to drop a curtsy to Baelor but he waved his unadorned hand. Daeron wondered whether she thought it strange that the King didn't wear even the signet ring, let alone a crown. Would she think that Baelor was truly mad? Surprised, he realized that he wanted Myriah to like the King.

"No, Princess," Baelor said to stop her from curtsying. "We were so eager to receive you. Welcome to Westeros, my lady, and with you, the peace and joy you are bringing us. I hope the Seven give you health and honour among us."

"I hope the Seven keep you in their thoughts, Your Grace," Myriah said without missing a beat.

Aegon rolled his eyes and Daeron saw that she noticed. Her eyes narrowed but it was only for a moment before she focused on Viserys. "My lady, I give you my lord the King's Hand," Daeron said formally and felt his father's eyes drilling holes into his back. Never before had a prince of Westeros wed a princess of an independent state, so there were no precedents in place but it was expected that Daeron would show deference to his kin first and introduce Myriah to them. Baelor would no doubt find it a gesture of peace; Aegon would find it humiliating, as if his weak son was elevating Dorne unjustly. Daeron could practically hear what his father thought: _if you dare to introduce_ me _to the lass, you are in big trouble_.

"I am very honoured to finally meet such an esteemed man as the Hand of the King," Myriah intoned.

Viserys gave her a stern look. He was a very proper man but never the one for court flatteries. "Welcome to Westeros, Princess," he said. He did not find it proper to accept curtsy when the King had refused, so he stepped forward and embraced he, albeit reluctantly and awkwardly. Everyone burst into spontaneous applaud.

Aegon made a step forward before Daeron could lead Myriah to him. "My lady."

 _What does he have in mind now_ , Daeron wondered. _Can't he just leave me alone, just for today, any day?_

Aegon stared at Myriah hard, making it sure that he expected a curtsy. Myriah graciously reconciled and dropped one with elegance and obedience that made Aegon's rudeness stand out even more. Not that he cared, of course.

"We were so eager to receive you," he repeated the King's words but his tone gave them another meaning altogether. 'We were so scared that the decision to fight the storm might prove a fatal one. We are very relieved to see you here, finally," he finished his not so veiled insult against Myriah's countrymen's sound judgment and looked her up and down, as if she were a mare he had just brought.

"So you should," Myriah said, loud enough to be heard by everyone around. Her chin went up. "It isn't every day that Westeros has the chance to marry Dorne."

Aegon gaped in the most undignified way. Naerys gasped. Viserys made a step forward. "Spoken like a true princess," he said and shot his son a glare before switching his focus back to Myriah. "And now, if my grandson doesn't protest, I'll give you his mother. My daughter couldn't wait to meet you. None of us could."

Only the fact that Daeron knew his mother so well let him know how shocked she was. Obviously, Myriah was nothing like she had envisioned – in looks, in manners, in everything. But Naerys hid her feelings behind two kisses for welcome and a warm smile. "Welcome home, my dear," she said. "We've been waiting for you for so long."

Next came the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who bowed to Myriah deeply and respectfully. "It will be my honour to do your bidding, Princess," he assured her. She shocked the court further by actually extending her hand for him to kiss. Prince Aemon recovered immediately and followed the instruction. Daeron noticed that he did not bring the hand to his lips but bowed his head to it instead. Myriah smiled, warmly and unexpectedly; surprised, Daeron saw his uncle smiling back. The Dragonknight _never_ smiled at anyone but Daeron and Naerys. Not like this, anyway. Not as if he meant it.

His slight delay in releasing the dark hand showed Daeron that Myriah Martell had just found her first friend in King's Landing.

"Well," the King spoke. "Let's go and have the festivities begin."

At Viserys' sign, the cannons started firing anew. The crowds roared in delight and started gathering in two lines along the road. When Myriah and her companions reached the Red Keep, all fountains in the city would start spouting wine, so everyone could take part in the festivities – yet another reason the populace loved such events.

Daeron led Myriah to a magnificent white mare with saddle and harness adorned with gems. She let him assist her and mounted the animal with ease that showed Daeron that she was an experienced rider. The only one female rider he knew was Daena, poor Daena locked in her vault.

"I am sorry," he murmured as he was giving Myriah the reins. "About… I am sorry."

 _Sorry for not protecting you, for not speaking out against him,_ he wanted to say. Yet, how could he? How could he admit that he had been incapable of shielding her because it had been drilled into him that he should defer to his father, as obnoxious as Aegon was? His mother, his grandfather, his attendants in his first years – everyone had repeated that. Aegon took advantage of it and it seemed that he was not above using it to humiliate Myriah, too. Before Daeron could think of a way to intervene, Myriah had rescued herself.

She smiled and touched his hand in quick reassurance. "It's all right," she whispered, immediately knowing what he meant. "Aegon Targaryen doesn't scare me. And besides, I liked your mother, and your grandfather and uncle, and the King, also. That makes four out of five."

Daeron looked at her, dreading that he'd find a spark of disdain in her eyes but there was none. He was surprised at how relieved he was. He hadn't realized how desperately he wanted her to like him.

As he was mounting his own horse before the two of them led the procession, riding on a rich carpet of scarlet, he thought that marital life would obviously include much more obstacles than he had anticipated. He would have to learn to be a better man if he wanted to make a good husband. And he now realized that despite all his efforts to prepare himself, he still had no idea how to be a husband.


	4. Getting Used to Novelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting used is hard for Myriah. It is hard for Westeros, as well.

 

  
**As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed. You keep me willing to write.**

**Foreign Queen**

Chapter 4

_A week later…_

Myriah Martell sat in front of the fireplace, shivering in her heavy Westerosi gown, and willed her hands to stop shaking as she was pouring tea for herself and her future godmother. In the back of the room, Lady Ilena Allyrion smiled at her to show that Myriah was doing well. Like Myriah, Ilena had been taught to Westerosi customs, dress style and all proper observances, so she could serve the Princess at court when Myriah became Westerosi's princess and later, queen.

"Would you like to call for the maids to add some wood to the fire?" Naerys Targaryen asked politely and Myriah shook her head.

"I am not cold at all," she lied. She could see that should the chamber became a shade warmer, Naerys might faint. For all of the elder woman's purported frailty, the robust Myriah certainly felt that she was the one whose health was in jeopardy. And this was not even the worst of winter, they said. Myriah couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that it might become colder. "Is it normal here for the fire to burn day and night, or is it just because of me?" she asked.

Naerys smiled. "It's up to each if us, child. When we feel cold, we light the fire. When we are hot, we extinguish it. No one wants for anyone to get ill."

Well, that was a relief. Myriah returned the smile, wondering how small and thin her future goodmother was. In fact, Naerys was a bit taller than Myriah but she was so reed-thin that she looked as if she would break. Her gown of golden brocade was too richly embroidered and made her look smaller. But now, with her cheeks flushed by the warmth, her beauty was clearly visible. Maybe Myriah's daughter, if she did have one, would take after her grandmother. That wouldn't be a bad thing but for certain, Myriah would make sure that any child of hers would actually eat. If they made it to the end of the meeting without Naerys fainting, Myriah would consider it a success.

"So, Myriah," Naerys asked. "Tell me about your childhood. Tell me about Dorne."

Myriah started talking, hesitantly at first, for she didn't know how Naerys would accept some of their customs; but later, when she saw that the elder woman looked genuinely interested, she relaxed and her words started pouring more freely. Naerys looked amazed when she heard about the sands that would move into a whirlwind. "A storm of sand!" she exclaimed. "Really? All this soft sand whirling all around you?"

Myriah laughed. "Not quite. Sand is not soft in a sandstorm. No, not at all. It bites, and stings, and hurts one's eyes. Sand is dangerous."

_And are you dangerous,_ Naerys wondered. The girl looked all softness and smiles, yet she had parried Aegon's insult without batting an eyelid. He was still fuming about that to anyone who would listen. Could Myriah turn out to be dangerous for Daeron? He seemed infatuated with her but maybe it was only because she was so new, so different. If Myriah played her cards wisely, she could have a great sway with Daeron. _And I should stay aside_ , Naerys reminded herself. Still, the look in her son's eyes whenever he spoke of his betrothed caused her pain, as shamed as she was even to think about that. She was no longer the most important woman in Daeron's life and that hurt. Of course, she wanted him to be happy, to hold his new wife in high esteem. She hadn't expected the little worm of jealousy and prayed extra long every day to the Mother to release her from it.

The girl in the back of the room brought them a new jug of tea. When she was about to retire, Naerys stopped her. "You are one of my future daughter's companions, aren't you?"

"I am, Your Grace," the girl confirmed, and Naerys smiled invitingly.

"Then you should sit with us. What's your name?"

"Ilena Allyrion is one of my closest friends, Your Grace," Myriah said. "She excels in everything she tries her hand in. She sews better than me and she's invaluable when I need to choose my attire. I am very happy to have her in King's Landing, with me."

"It seems that you are," Naerys agreed, wondering how Myriah would react if Aegon had his way and their future gooddaughter was left alone in her new home. It seemed that Myriah would not give up on Lady Ilena without a fight. The perspective of Dornish influence at court was rapidly becoming a reality but Naerys had no right to complain: after all, she hadn't given Daeron a sister to wed.

Naturally, went without saying that Myriah would arrange a proper match for her friend as soon as she became settled in her new surroundings. That shouldn't be difficult since Ilena was very lovely, with the purple eyes that Naerys hadn't seen in anyone but her own family and the Velaryons. Her hair might be the matching silver-gold but it was hidden beneath a bonnet. Naerys tried not to stare because it was rude.

Myriah was grateful for that because hair was a sore matter for Ilena. About a year ago, after fighting a fever she hadn't expected to survive, she had woken up to find out that at combing her hair, it had all fallen out. How she had wept! Of course, her hair was already growing back, and thicker at that, but it would be a good few years before it was recovered to its brilliance.

So the three women talked about sewing, gowns and different rites at court, very careful not to utter the words _Daeron the Young Dragon_ , _conquest_ , _Lord Tyrell_ , or _vipers_. As well-meaning as they were, it would be months or maybe years before they could feel fully comfortable around each other.

Peace had a long way to go.

* * *

_Three days later…_

The constant presence of a white-cloaked knight behind her whenever she left her chambers was starting to make her anxious. She was not even wed to Daeron Targaryen yet but everyone seemed to expect of her to take the Kingsguard in stride. Still, this time it was the Dragonknight who accompanied her and after the first few steps she felt silly, walking a few steps ahead of him as if he were a stranger and not a member of her soon-to-be family. "Would you mind to walk beside me, Your Grace?" she said.

"Lord Commander, Princess," he corrected and fell in step, offering her his arm to lean onto. "We leave behind all our titles when we don the white," he explained.

"Yes," Myriah said. "I know."

They made a few steps without talking. But the silence was not uncomfortable. Myriah studied his hard profile, the austerely cut off fair hair and the purple eyes that were constantly looking around, careful not to miss anything. The arm holding hers was gentle, obviously Prince Aemon hadn't left his courtly manners behind when he had donned the white, yet Myriah felt sure that he'd have no difficulty in reaching for his sword if need be.

"You are so watchful," she said. "Surely we aren't in danger here, in the middle of the Red Keep?"

He didn't hesitate. "We're taking all precautionary measures, Princess, but there are still those who believe that Daeron should have wed one of the daughters of our own great Houses."

Myriah's eyebrows rose. "And they are ready to facilitate that if they arrange, say, something to happen to his current betrothed?"

Aemon shrugged.

"Is this the moment when I'm supposed to shriek and faint?" Myriah asked with great interest.

His mouth quirked. "You've just missed the moment. Next time, just faint. Don't ask beforehand."

"I'll remember this," Myriah promised. "How cold it is!"

"I'm afraid it isn't the worst of it," Aemon said. "Would you like to go to the glass gardens now?"

She beamed. She had never seen a glass garden before and she was very curious. "Yes, please."

"May I accompany you?" someone asked from behind them. "For the Father's sake, Aemon, take this sword back in."

Yes, she had been right. He had taken the sword out before she could fully register that they weren't alone.

"I am sorry, my lord," Aemon apologized. "I didn't realize it was you."

His father waved a dismissive hand and closed the door he had just come out of. "I am glad to see that our bride is so well guarded," he said. "I was meeting with the High Septon," he said. "It seems that you'll have the honour of being wed by the King himself, my lady," he turned to Myriah.

To her credit, she didn't let her surprise show. "I will be honoured," she said smoothly as they walked toward the glass gardens.

The Hand of the King didn't quite snort but it was obvious that he was annoyed – with the King, not Myriah. "You aren't an easy one to stun, are you? I hope my grandson will appreciate you half as much as I do, Myriah Martell."

"Then maybe it's Your Grace whom I should wed," she replied immediately and cursed her quick tongue as soon as the words came out. The Hand was a stern and austere man who was a stranger to the art of courtly humour and flirt and she had just done exactly what she shouldn't have. Viserys looked at her in disbelief.

And then, to both her and his son's amazement, he smiled and shook his head. "You're too late," he said. "I am too old to lose my head over a woman, even you. You should have arrived ten years ago, and we might have come out with something."

She smiled, delighted. If the Dragonknight reaction was anything to go by, he had never known that his father was not entirely inept in courtly flirtation with a woman. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard for the Targaryens to accept her.

"Look," Aemon suddenly said. "It's Daeron, I think."

Myriah immediately turned her head to see and didn't notice the meaningful looks the two men exchanged behind her back.

A few minutes later, it was Daeron leading her toward the glass gardens, Aemon having fallen discreetly behind. With the processions, pageants, and receptions that had been taking place without a break since her arrival, Myriah had seen her husband to be no more than five times and had not spoken to him at all. She burned with desire to find out whether he had meant what his words and gestures had promised her that first day, whether he found her as pleasing as she found him, or he would have preferred a marble maiden with silver hair and purple eyes, someone like Ilena – not that Ilena would ever accept to be Myriah's husband's paramour but still. But she could not _ask_ him…

"It seems that someone found the swing," Daeron said. "The children from the palace love those," he went on and Myriah looked at the swing hanging from one of the trees far away. She smiled when she recognized the boy sitting on the plank.

"I wondered why he still hadn't come to pester me for today," she said and smiled again when her nephew stood up, just when the swing was at its highest point in the air, and with a battle cry flew straight into his father's arms.

Daeron, though, was not so pleased. He blanched so terribly that for a moment, Myriah thought he was having some kind of seizure. But then she understood. "What's wrong, Daeron? This is but a children's game! When I was Maron's age, I also jumped from the swing into my father's arms."

"What if he had stepped back?" Daeron asked sharply, still unable to believe in the happy end.

"Step back?" Myriah started, astounded. "And let Maron fall on the ground?"

She paused. "Has no one played with you when you were a child?" she asked, very softly.

"Not like this," he said. "And now, the glass gardens?" he asked and turned his back to the swing before the two Martells could give him a fright once again.

Myriah nodded silently, trying to blink the sudden tears away. This was not the life she wanted for herself. Not the life she wanted for the children she would have. Suddenly, the magnificence of the Red Keep felt like prison walls getting close on her.


	5. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited wedding is finally taking place.

_Five days later…_

The Great Sept of Baelor shone with thousands of torches and candles in the golden candelabra but they lost a part of their glow when the ascending sun threw its first rays through the doors that were held wide open. It was somewhat unusual but King Baelor had insisted on the wedding taking place outside, just near the entrance. Daeron and Myriah had accepted eagerly. They didn't mind the people of King's Landing seeing them exchange their vows, take part in their joy. The peace with Dorne was certainly something deserving of celebration and they wouldn't deprive the smallfolk of seeing the union that would cement it.

From the small hours of the morning, the street and squares leading to Visenya's Hill had started filling with people – artisans, merchants, women with their brood, whores, soldiers in their leather armours, old men and women with their sticks, adroit pickpockets who were now winning a year of wages alike were shoving each other, trying to find a better place. When the two wedding processions had come, they had been preceded from men at-arms cleaning the road –they couldn't have passed otherwise.

"I, Daeron, take you, Myriah, to my wedded wife..."

The Prince's voice was so loud and clear, so rotund that it carried effortlessly all around the top of the hill, over the thousands of heads. Everyone looked at Daeron, startled. Even Prince Aegon lost his bored hauteur and looked at his son, astounded. On the raised platform, undet the canopies with the standards of Westeros and Dorne, Daeron who still hadn't celebrated his seventeenth nameday, was now giving his pledge to the fifteen-year-old Myriah. He sounded… well, he sounded like a man.

"I pledge my love and loyalty to you and I forsake all others…"

The whispers of the crowd ceased little by little. The young voice carried further yet. Daeron was reciting the long vow he had memorized last night, the one every man following the Faith in King's Landing gave the woman he chose for companion. Yet it sounded like something Daeron was composing at the moment – he made it sound so meaningful, as if it were something created just for him and the Dornish Princess.

"I wrap you in my protection and I give you my esteem…"

Slowly, Mors Martell stepped forward and removed the cloak with the sun and spear from his sister's shoulders; Daeron affixed the Targaryen one, astounded by the certainty of his own hands; but the shoulders under his fingers shuddered. Was she scared? He hoped she wasn't.

"And I swear all this to you…"

Everyone stared silently at the couple, at Daeron's silver-gold hair and fair complexion and Myriah's olive skin and the ringlets of dark hair, so black that it looked almost blue. Each in their own way, they both looked as foreign and different from the crowd as humanly possible, yet in this moment, there was no woman – a young bride, a shy maiden, a seasoned whore, an old crone, a cheated wife – who did not feel as if she were in the bride's place. There was no man who did not identify himself with the young Prince. Daeron was wedding all women in the kingdom that would one day be his. And the entire Westeros chose Myriah for a companion in life. Everyone wanted to have a taste of a happiness that looked perfect.

Daeron could feel the crowd's excitement but he did not look at the people. He was staring intently at the girl in velvet and lace, with the Targaryen cloak around her that he was giving his pledge to.

She was still new and different to him, now even more so. The red veil made her dark complexion stand out even more, the brownish blush on her cheeks evident. But even as flustered and moved as she was, there was something to her that he had trouble recognizing at first, for he was not accustomed to it. But it was there each time she met his eyes.

Warmth. Just for him.

Naerys was fighting her tears and praying to the Seven to give her son a lasting happiness. Aegon was still squinting at Daeron, wondering could it be that he was finally turning into a man. King Baelor looked blissful as he was officiating at the ceremony, as if he could taste the peace he had worked so hard for. The Hand of the King looked stiff and formal as usual, but there was a hint of a smile each time he looked at the newlyweds. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was constantly looking around, alert, his hand at his sword, ready to defy any danger that might spring out of somewhere.

Once the ceremony was over, the King headed for the sept to pray for the Seven's blessing. The lords and ladies who had not been invited to stand on the platform with the royal family and the Small Council, as well as the members of the Great Houses, waited there. Myriah had never seen the inside of the sept and looked around with great curiosity, marveling at the wealth amassed in it. Fortunately, the veil hid her indecent staring.

Some movement of a few septons and septas drew her attention. They were flattening themselves against a wall. "What are they doing?" she whispered to Daeron.

He chuckled. "They are convinced that the moment an abomination like me, born to brother and sister, enters the holy sept, the Seven will send a lightning and incinerate everyone standing too close to me," he whispered back.

Myriah looked at him, unsure whether to believe him; but when she saw the holy men and women looking from Daeron to the ornate ceiling and back and looking properly disappointed, she couldn't help herself: she squeezed his hand and laughed. He looked at her twinkling eyes and laughed, too. Behind them, a wave of whispering rippled through their train, interpreting the omen. Surely a marriage starting with laughter could not be anything but a happy and enduring one?

* * *

_In the night…_

"Mother help me, this is barbaric!"

That was Myriah's greeting for Daeron as he turned to close the door, pushing some very excited ladies firmly outside. "Try to hit some of them in the nose!" Myriah hissed in half-whisper.

She was shaking, stripped to her smallclothes and beyond. He looked aside from her lady parts, clearly visible in the candlelight. Her swarthy face was as white as the moon outside. On her left breast, a huge hand had left a red five-fingered mark. Daeron shook his head, wondering whether he could find out who the offender was. _And if I find out, then what?_ he wondered. Bedding was an old custom and brides had seldom took it well. Daeron certainly hadn't enjoyed his part. But at least he hadn't been squeezed.

He made a step toward her and she wrapped her arms around herself but her fingers curved like claws, her eyes gleaming like a cornered lioness'. Daeron poured a goblet of water and left it on a nearby table. Still looking at him warily, she held out a hand, took the goblet and drank. "I am sorry," she said in small voice. "I am sorry I'm behaving like this. It's just that I… I didn't expect it to be so wicked."

"Wicked it was," he agreed. "May I come near?" he asked after a while.

She considered this and nodded, her composure slowly coming back to her.

He made a step toward her.

In this moment, someone opened the door. _How could I not latch it_ , Daeron berated himself as he threw on a robe and walked to the door. "Kill them, whoever they are!" Myriah snapped from the alcove, obviously driven to the end of her endurance.

There was a brief silence. A moment later, Daeron said, "I think I'd better not. You seem quite fond of him, my lady. Are you tucked in?" he added and came near, leading the intruder by the hand.

"Maron," Myriah sighed and shook her head. "I should have known."

"Are you ill?" the boy asked her and came near. "I saw they carried you out and you looked ill."

"I'm sorry, Myriah, the nursemaid took her eyes off for a minute and he came to the hall and followed you here! You little scoundrel, come here. My apologies, Your Grace."

It was Mors Martell. He was gasping for breath and Daeron could hardly restrain his laughter at the image of this huge man running upstairs to rein his son in.

"I'd rather have it that you came a few minutes earlier," Myriah said from the bed. "Off with you. Both of you!"

He turned and left, clutching Maron's hand quite tightly. The boy did not complain, though. Myriah laughed. "I can feel that someone's going to have a good warming," she said.

Daeron looked at her, dismayed. "He beats the child?"

Myriah rolled her eyes. There was no need for Daeron to sound like Maron was running around black and blue.

If anything, this little episode had made the shock of the bedding go away. Daeron came near and Myriah lifted the bedcovers.

* * *

_In the morning…_

"Come on, open your eyes. Come on."

"No."

"Open them," he cajoled. "I want to show you something."

"I want to sleep..."

"You can sleep later. Just a moment, I promise."

Myriah opened a bleary eye – just one, so she could go back to sleep if what he wanted to show her turned out not to be so interesting, after all. She moaned softly – the pain from the first bedding was still there but she had been prepared. She knew that the first few times, it would hurt. Later, though… it would depend on her to make it enjoyable… or not.

"No, you must come out of bed."

Myriah was almost awake now but she refused to leave the bed. "To step on the cold floor?" she asked and gave the soft carpets a very suspicious look. "You want me to die from cold? You swore an oath to protect me!"

He brought on some slippers – not her own, for hers had been lost to an especially rough knight last night – and waited. Myriah sighed and disentangled herself from the covers. Daeron put the slippers on her feet. "Come on," he said. "I want to show you something truly wonderful."

She stood up and he wrapped her in a fur cloak. Then, he led her to the balcony, pushed the curtain back and opened the door. Myriah shivered.

"There," Daeron said, and Myriah gasped.

In front of her, there was a sandstorm of tiny white petals that filled the early morning and cut the dusk, landed on the rails and floor, covered the courtyard below. It smelled fresh and sharp, and invigorating. Myriah felt a smile on delight spreading over her face. "Snow," she whispered. "That must be snow."

Daeron nodded, smiling at her reverance.

"Snow," Myriah said again, wonder in her voice. "I always wondered what it looked like."

She held out a hand, caught a petal, watched it melt. Then, all of a sudden, she poked her head out and tried to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Daeron laughed. "I thought you were cold?" he said, and she grinned.

"This was before," she said. Between the snow, the beauty of it, and the fact that Daeron had wished to show it to her, she was no longer cold. At all.


	6. Lasting Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of an heir should cement the peace.

_A year later…_

The tears were running silently down Myriah's cheeks, choking her. In a bout of sudden, uncontrollable anger, she threw her mirror against the wall and the copper in silvery frame clanked off. Ilena hurried off to fetch it but didn't bring it back to her lady – Myriah was better off not seeing the rusty-red spots dotting her face and neck.

"Won't he get born already?" Myriah asked, anger and despair fighting for dominance. She had no doubt that her babe would be a boy – they all needed a boy, the septas and maesters they consulted all said it would be a boy. Westeros and Dorne needed a boy. Myriah needed a son to strengthen her position and stop being perceived as a hated foreigner. But did that mean that this child should turn her into a monster? She was already scared out of her wits that her body would never recover, that it would stay forever distorted in this horrendous shape. But now her son had also started disfiguring her face. Daeron assured her that she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever set his eyes upon. She did not believe him, of course. She got anxious when he did as much as talk to another woman. He was Prince Aegon's son, after all, and Aegon was notorious for his trysts.

"It's too early, my lady, you still have a month to go," Ilena said, as she always did, as if Myriah wasn't counting the weeks and days until she would be able to see her feet, finally. "It's normal. Lelia says the spots would disappear once you give birth."

"I hope so," Myriah huffed and snuggled in her blanket. Normal or not, she had another woman with child to compare herself to – and she always came up the loser. Lately, Daena Targaryen had been allowed to venture out of her vault for the sake of her soon to be born babe – and she looked more glamorous than ever. Every woman carried differently but that did not mean that Myriah had to like the situation. _Or maybe she just doesn't have much of a choice,_ she thought all of a sudden. For all the dislike Myriah evoked in some with her very presence, her child was eagerly anticipated and loved at court already. She was spoiled and tended to so much that sometimes she wanted to scream. She did scream – at Daeron, who, in all honesty, was not to blame that her favourite gown no longer fit her, or that she had to sit with her feet up because of the swelling, or that she still had trouble holding her meals sometimes, or now with those spots on her face… But he was there and he tolerated her. The man who had fathered Daena's child, though, was nowhere around. Her pregnancy was an embarrassment to everyone. She needed to be strong, for there was no one to be strong for her.

Still, Myriah would have felt better, had Daena not been so radiant while expecting. She didn't want to be here, in a court where so many eyes gauged her and found her lacking. She didn't want to endure her goodfather's ill will and her goodmother's unfaltering piety and niceness that made her feel her own inadequacies all the more. She wanted to go home…

"My lady, we need to attire you for dinner," Ilena said.

Myriah silently shook her head no.

* * *

_The next day…_

"The Princess doesn't receive any visitors. Your Grace," the lad added as an afterthought.

The King's Hand narrowed his eyes at him. The dark-haired boy shrugged apologetically but did not remove himself from the door. "I am not any visitor," Viserys Targaryen said.

The Dornish lad nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. That's why I'll go in and ask her whether she'd like to receive you."

Viserys' face hardened. The boy was talking as if Myriah was already a queen. Baelor _had_ been too kind in letting her keep her Dornish retinue. It was obvious that this lad acknowledged only his Princess' wishes.

And still… he could understand what the young one was saying when only a few months ago it would have been impossible. The people in Myriah's train had taken great pains to adopt the King's Landing accent and as a result, they no longer sat in a group by themselves in a great hall but were scattered among the Westerosi folk. Maybe in this case, Baelor's kindness was not so unjustified.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The boy's eyes glinted with something that was long forgotten for Viserys. Something familiar. Something that was lost when the lad looked aside for a brief moment before looking straight in the Hand's eyes. "I am Garyn Sand, Your Grace."

A bastard. Daeron's bride had actually brought a bastard to King's Landing. And her father had let her. How could the peace hold when Myriah gave such offence to all that was customary and honourable in Westeros?

"Very well. Then go and tell your lady I want to pay her a visit, Garyn Sand," he said and settled in a deep red chair to make it clear that he wasn't going anywhere. This was the heir of Westeros that was to be born and if this bunch of Dornishmen thought they could hide any problems from Viserys…

The boy was already at the double doors, his hand dark against the oak when it came back to Viserys. Daeron, of course, Daeron at age fourteen, Daeron when Viserys had patiently explained to him why his great plans for conquest could not come to a long-term fruition.

"My lady is not ready for visitors," a woman spoke next to Viserys. He had seen her a few times with Myriah in the gardens. Now, her words confirmed his fears. He had bad experience when it came to women with children. His lady wife had not carried her last babe to term and Naerys was still sickly. Naerys herself had almost died of starvation, unable to hold her food down before Daeron was born. The fact that Myriah had not left her chambers in a while and turned every visitor back was not a good sign.

"Why?" he asked harshly. "Is there a problem we should know about?"

The woman shook her head, unsmiling and not trying in any way to alleviate her concerns. Still, her air of calm competence suddenly made him relax. Here was a woman who wouldn't let her mistress or the child suffer any difficulty that could be resolved.

"I know who you are," he said. "Myriah's wetnurse, yes? You've been with her for her entire life."

The woman nodded. She seemed to have celebrated around forty namedays and looked quite stern, with her dark hair pulled up in a severe bun and the perpetual resolve cast on her features. No beauty to her at all. No female softness. She met the Hand's eyes and held them for a moment before lowering her own. "That's right, Your Grace," she said. "And I assure you, there's nothing wrong with my lady or the babe. She's just tired and willing for it to end."

Viserys believed her. His long experience with people had taught him to read behind their words. Myriah was obviously miserable and overstating her difficulties but she was in no immediate danger of something bad happening.

She curtsied. "I'll go now, Your Grace, if you will."

"Wait," he stopped her. "Do you know a boy by the name of Garyn Sand?"

She was obviously surprised. "My son," she said, guardedly.

 _The Seven help me, it gets worse,_ he thought. Had the Dornish lost their mind? How could they have sent to King's Landing a woman with a bastard child? How could have they let her stay near Myriah at all? Was it a provocation? A deliberate slight?

The woman's expression suddenly changed to something that startled Viserys so much that he was rendered speechless. Rage. Darkness that she made no effort of concealing. A sea of bitter hatred.

"I've always heard you were a wise and shrewd man, Your Grace," she spat. "Why don't you make the calculations? My son is _not_ the child I nursed alongside the Princess. He's younger. He's seen barely thirteen namedays. Can't you guess?"

He could and he did. And he looked aside. "Does his father have a name?" he asked, trying to regain his composure in the face of her outrage.

She laughed, loud, and mocking, and angry. Her hands were shaking with helpless ire. "How would I know? He might be the man who finished my children off. Or the other one, he who set my house on fire. Or the one who slew my husband on the battlefield. It was hardly one who ran over Sunspear and Dorne… I conceived by the conquest, just so you know… Your Grace… Are you really the one to be repulsed by the conquest?"

She was not sobbing – she was hissing the words out like one of the snakes her land was famous for. Viserys looked aside from her burning eyes, feeling irrationally guilty, as if he had personally advised Daeron for that ill-considered campaign of his. As if she were someone worthy of such feelings on his part. Dornishmen had been the enemy… and she was smallfolk. Just Myriah's wetnurse and nothing more. There was nothing for him to feel guilty over. Nothing.

He stood up. "I'll go now," he said and turned to leave. "If your lady requires something, let me know. I'll give orders for you to be admitted immediately."

Myriah's chambers were on the first floor; while he was leaving, he heard her voice through the slightly ajar window. She was saying something to Daeron who laughed; a minute later, she laughed too and kept chatting away. In the garden, the Targaryen looking lady of Myriah's entourage was strolling with one of Daeron's companions, smiling and giving him coy looks. He, in turn, openly admired the perfect oval of her face.

The wounds were too deep for people from Viserys' generation to heal; but maybe, it could be otherwise for the young ones.

* * *

_A month later…_

"Haven't you given birth already?" Prince Aegon asked when he came back from his hunting trip. His words might have sounded like genuine interest, had it not been for the disgust in the look he now slid all over Myriah's bloated body.

She smiled and hoped he hadn't heard her teeth grind. She intended to give him a barb right back but when she opened her mouth, the words that came out were not it. "I have. I just hid the babe in my chambers and tied a pillow to my belly so I could waddle about a bit longer and answer foolish questions."

Aegon stared at her, stunned into speechlessness. Behind him, his brother sighed. With a stung of regret, Myriah realized that the Dragonknight did not look surprised in the least. He had seen worse in the last few weeks.

The pain that shot through her was so sudden that she gasped and reeled. A moment later, Aegon's strong arms were holding her safely to her feet and she saw his wide purple eyes right before hers. For first time, she realized that they were like Daeron's, maybe because they were, for once, full of concern instead of mocking superiority. "What now?" he asked.

The pain receded, to come back a few moments later, much stronger than the constant pains shooting through her for the last two weeks. She almost managed a smile. "What comes next now, you mean, my lord? I think it's your grandson's birth."

"Can you walk?" he asked and looked around for his brother. Between the two of them, Myriah headed slowly for her chambers, scared and elated, and very unready for what would surely be the most important work in her life.

* * *

_A day later…_

When she opened her eyes, Daeron was sitting next to the bed, holding her hand. Just the effort to move her head and look at him pained her.

"Do you want me to tell you?" he asked softly.

She licked her lips and summoned her courage. "Yes."

"It's a boy!"

She broke into sobs.

Daeron stood up and went into the adjacent chamber. Myriah ventured a look downward and noticed with displeasure that her belly was still as big as before giving birth. Septas and maesters had warned her that it would take some time for it to subside but she had hoped…

All thoughts of her appearance vanished when Daeron placed the babe in her arms. She stared at the little boy and then at Daeron. "But he's so ugly!" she cried and saw how he relaxed.

"Oh I'm so happy you're saying it!" her husband said. "I was wondering whether it was only me who thought so. Everyone is so thrilled, I didn't dare say that he was ugly… and I thought maybe it was normal for babes…"

Myriah cuddled the little bundle to her. He felt nice. Warm. Staring at her fascinated. She was so happy that he was here and he was healthy… but he was ugly. Hairy. Even his ears had hair! She nuzzled his nose with hers and Daeron held both of them. "I am so lucky to have you," he whispered and then he sat on her bed and they began discussing the matter of how they could get better used to a child that looked so uncomely.

At the door, Lelia smiled and took Ilena away. The girl had been allowed to attend Myriah's labour and it had been a mistake, in Lelia's opinion. She would have been better off not knowing what awaited her one day. At the end, she had looked as if she had given birth herself.

"I am so happy that Prince Baelor is here," Ilena said for about a hundredth time. "And that he's healthy, and my lady is healthy. And he will become more comely with time, you say? You are sure?"

Myriah's wetnurse patted the girl's hand. Had she been this young and inexperienced once? Of course she had.

She could now go and have some rest. The babe was safely here and Myriah had not bled too much. All was well. She could let her lady and the Prince to enjoy their new son and fret about his looks all they liked.

And she would not think of the other, of the one she saw in the fires and sands that her gift showed fate in, of the one who would be born soon, and of the life threads so tangled and knotted that they could not be torn asunder for a lifetime, for over a century. She would not think of a war as terrible as the Conquest of Dorne itself, and all those who would die, and the rivers of blood that would flow up to the stars and beyond.


	7. Starting a Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forging a political peace is a good thing. Now, if they can only forge a domestic one...

_A few months later…_

"Come on, what is it that you want? Tell me… He doesn't answer," Myriah told Daeron, smiling.

"Well, I imagine he'd have to learn to talk first."

It was a rare event for Daeron to answer to her this sharply. Myriah's eyebrows shot but she didn't say anything. Instead, she turned back to Baelor and kept talking to him. Soon, his disgruntlement went off and he started smiling at her.

Daeron shook his head, tiredly. Myriah's nosy nursemaid who hovered nearby, ready to take the babe if Myriah became dizzy, something that happened to her quite often nowadays – in fact, more often than in her first pregnancy – huffed and gave him a belligerent look. She was also on the little bore's side. Everyone was on his side – Myriah, Daeron's mother. His grandfather, even! Everyone crowded around the tiny squealer - or rather, the not so tiny squealer. Sure, it was all good and nice that he was healthy and he had certainly started looking better these days – the hairs had fallen off his ears and he had even started to turn proportional, instead of being mostly head – but he was still a bundle of cries for attention and Myriah was ready to reply whenever she wasn't busy being sick. She had no time for Daeron any more. They were barely alone – she insisted that Baelor be there when she was feeling good. Naerys was even worse – she had turned into a doting grandmother and all she ever spoke about, except for religion, was the babe. And the King's Hand was the final straw – he actually came to their chambers and held the little crier, to Baelor's apparent delight. Daeron rarely had any desire to and frankly, neither did Baelor – as soon as he felt that it was his father holding him, he would start screaming his head off. It had nothing to do with repairing the peace in the kingdom – it was grown and responsible people turning into fools as soon as a babe smiled at them toothlessly. No one seemed to read Baelor's thoughts as Daeron did. The babe's face was quite expressive and Daeron could practically see what he'd say as soon as he started talking… _"Mother, Mother, look at me commanding Grandmother. I've set her on singing to me… This dog looks fluffy… well, it is fluffy… oh when will I be able to start plucking his fur off? I am not sleepy, so stop rocking me. I said, I am not sleepy, I am not… Why should one start shouting to be taken notice of and understood here?"_ Daeron knew these were Baelor's thoughts, yet no one else did. Instead, they treated him like something pure and fragile, instead of the pester he was. Maybe things would get better when Baelor grew up a little but for now, he was just a bother. A bother Myriah was too attached to.

"Let him rest in his own chambers, Myriah," he said. "He needs to rely on others and not you alone. You won't be available at all times to him. The new babe will…"

She looked up. "But the babe is not here yet. This child is here now." She paused, her eyes thoughtful, alert. "You don't love him, do you?" she suddenly asked.

Daeron blinked. He had gotten accustomed to her outspoken ways but this time, she had taken him by the surprise. "What? Don't be ridiculous, of course I love him…"

She looked at the small head, dark like hers. Her voice was subdued. "Sometimes, I wonder…"

The worst thing was, sometimes Daeron also wondered. In the two years after the Dornish ship boarded, he had come to love Myriah with all the strenght of his young and fierce heart but Baelor... he wondered.

A knock at the door, and a maid announced the arrival of Princess Naerys. Baelor's eyes lit up as soon as he saw his grandmother and he raised his hands for her to take him. She gave Myriah a present – a small box with some lotion that Daeron had no idea as to the purpose of but his wife obviously valued. Then, Naerys turned her attention to Baelor. "Look who we have here," she crooned. "Our very big boy. Come here. Come to me, right?"

He gurgled. She was about to take him when the Dornish nursemain intervened. "Leave the child where he us, Your Grace," she said.

Naerys looked stunned. Apart from her husband, no one had ever thought of giving her orders or telling her what not to do. She looked at Daeron, then Myriah and finally the woman who looked very calm, as if she hadn't overstepped her boundaries enormously. 'What's the meaning of this?" she finally asked, the devout septa falling away to the wroth of an offended queen – or a queen in waiting, as she most certainly was. "Is this a Dornish way of addressing royalty?" she added and immediately wished to take her words back. Of course, it was too late.

"It certainly isn't the way Dornishmen and women would like to address a Targaryen, Your Grace," Myriah said, her tone icy, the joy of playing with her babe suddenly soured. These little jabs hurt her more than she cared to admit, especially when they came from those she had come to like and trust – Daeron, Naerys. They did it unwittingly and that hurt more than Aegon's barbs because it showed that she was still not accepted, her land and her people not respected. Not fully. She knew all too well how people at Sunspear spoke about children born to Dornish women and Westerosi soldiers, children of hurt and helplessness, children of rape and survival, children of conquest. She squeezed Baelor so tight that he wailed and she immediately relaxed her grip. Was this how people would speak of her children one day – Baelor and the one who was still to be born? _Ah these. They are not of Westeros, they are Dornishmen…_ "Or would you like to hear how we addressed your revered cousin, the Young Dragon?"

Naerys looked down. "No."

"I didn't think you would. Rest assured that we address everyone by their merit… and we know how to treat our children, something that Westerosi mothers of good birth obviously fail to impart in their own children."

Somehow, she made _good birth_ sound like _disgusting incest_. Daeron and Naerys both stared at her, dumbfounded. She glared back.

"You shouldn't pick the child up," Lelia said, still addressing Naerys and seemingly oblivious to the conflict she had caused. "You have to take care of your own little one now."

Naerys stared at her. She did not understand. And then she did. Her hand immediately went to her flat belly under the white gown. "You are wrong."

The Dornishwoman shook her head, offended. The silence in Myriah's solar was heavy and full of questions and doubts. "I am not. You are with child, my lady."

"I am not," Naerys snapped even as she was counting the days in her head. Lately, Aegon had been seeking her bed more than usual and she had admitted him as a wife should. But it was impossible!

"Quite the contrary," Lelia countered.

Baelor made a sound as if he was trying to repeat the word without much success. At another time, they would have laughed at his clumsy attempts at speaking. But not now. "I am too old for childbearing," Naerys said.

The woman just gave her a pitying look. Naerys should take offense once again but this time, she was beyond that. "My lady, correct me if I am wrong but you are barely thirty-odd, right? It isn't at all unusual for ladies your age to get with child."

"But these are women with many children!" Naerys cried. "I never had a child after Daeron. You must be wrong."

Lelia shrugged. She seemed to feel that she had done her duty – she had informed the Princess about her condition. If the silly woman wanted to risk her own babe's wellbeing, well, that was hardly Lelia's business.

Once again, Baelor raised his hands for Naerys to pick him up.

She didn't.

"Well," Myriah muttered, "it seems we'll have to retrain him." As young as he was, Baelor knew his mother never picked him up. He was carried to her. They needed to teach him that with Naerys, too, it seemed.

A new knock. "Come in," Daeron said, and Lady Ilena entered and started talking to Myriah in low voice.

"What?" the Princess asked, as if she had not heard right. "Are you sure?"

The girl nodded. Myriah turned to the others and was about to speak when a huge cry from the outside preemptied her and rattled the windows. The hallways suddenly resonated with the sound of hundred of feet running. All bells in the Maegor's Hold started ringing, followed by each bell in the Red Keep and Visenya's Hill, and then the city. "The King is dead! The King is dead!"

"May the Seven hold him," Daeron said softly and cursed himself for the sinful anger he felt at Baelor – really, fasting himself to death! What had he been _thinking_?

Myriah looked down and stroked her son's head unconsciously, as if to steady herself. "I am sure they will," she murmured. "He spent his entire life serving them."

"He could have chosen a better day for dying," Lelia snarled, all more sharply because of the contrast with Myriah and Daeron's words. But truly, was she supposed to be pretend that the Targaryen king had been devout? He had been befuddled, that's what he had been. And his death had exacerbated the visions that had been dancing into the flames for her as soon as she had realized that Princess Naerys was with child. This babe would be both cursed and blessed, linked to blood and bloom, devastation and flourishing. And death.

Naerys, it seemed, had picked up on the Dornishwoman's meaning. She might not believe she was with child, but her hands certainly did: they went to her belly, as if to protect the babe from the cries.


	8. Woman, Child, Princess?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding the balance between all the parts she's expected to play is a hard thing...

_A month later…_

When Myriah opened her eyes, the sun was already flooding like a river through the slit between the curtains. She looked up and slowly maneuvered her growing body to one side to check the other side of the bed.

There was no imprints of another body in the covers. The pillow was annoyingly fluffy. Last night she had thrown Daeron out and he had not even tried to sneak back later. She felt miserable and neglected but this feeling could not break the nice languor brought up by her pregnancy. Without bothering to turn back, she went back to sleep on her side. This time, the babe was agreeable and obviously decided that it was time to take a nap, so Myriah slept for a good while and when she woke up, she had no desire to get up.

Lelia's brisk voice intruded on her thoughts or the lack thereof. "Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well? It's almost midday."

Midday… With horror, Myriah realized that she had been supposed to break her fast with her goodmother. She told that to Lelia and curled up in a ball as tightly as she could – this belly was certainly in the way; she had been so happy to get rid of it only to have it back only five months after Baelor's birth, - feeling immensely sorry for herself.

While the Maester was checking her pulse and her attendants opened the windows and went to the clothes' press for a gown, Lelia stood glowering. When the Maester proclaimed that Her Grace was in great health and left, with her permission, Myriah leaned against the pillows and closed her eyes. "Where is my lord husband?" she asked.

"If he's half as smart as I perceive him to be, he must have gone half the way to the North already," Lelia huffed.

With a groan, Myriah raised herself on her elbow. "What is it now?" she asked tiredly, still there was a terse tone in her voice. Her Dornish attendants looked at each other, no doubt aware what would happen now; but Myriah would rather avoid setting the entire Red Keep talking, yet knew she was powerless to prevent it. She suppressed her irritation that Lelia dared create such uproar in front of the Westerosi's ladies who hovered nearby, visibly preoccupied with setting things in Myriah's bedchamber in order but actually very intrigued, their ears as big as castles.

"He runs away from you and in truth, I cannot blame him," Lelia snapped. "You've become insufferable, my lady. This and that, petty whims and no thoughts reaching farther than your chambers or Prince Baelor's nursery and gossiping with all those ladies. You were able to hold a conversation on a different topic than courtly gossip and infant drool, before. When was the last time you left your bedchamber?"

Myriah clenched her teeth. Her patience was reaching its limits when it came to her nursemaid's recriminations. "Lelia, Her Grace is with child," Ilena said, trying to mend the situation. "She often gets tired."

"Often gets tired, she says!" Lelia had no intention to let herself be distracted. "When _isn't_ she tired? Who did we bring from Dorne here? Something between a good mare and a useless King's Landing's lady? Princesses of Dorne do not spend weeks in seclusion in their chambers when they are healthy. She was brought up to play a role, not sit here and mope all day when she isn't trading gossips with other women."

Myriah bristled. Anger made her rise quickly to stare at Lelia from her not too impressive height. "Enough! I will not be spoken to as if I were a child!"

Right now, she did look like a child to Lelia. The girl had no idea what she was getting herself into. The new King's coming to the throne meant changes in Westeros and Myriah had to champion the Dornish cause, the peace, the very reason she had been brought here to be Prince Daeron's bride. She had left their land of heat, and sand, and blood oranges for this cold place of stones and glass gardens to be queen one day, a guarantee for peace in all times. The life of a useless court lady was not one she had been born for; a woman of her rank should not content herself with the joys of motherhood, as great as they were. It was a peasant women's job; Myriah had greater obligations, yet she wanted to play mother when she needed to play a queen. Technically, there was no queen now, for King Viserys' lady wife had died long ago; by all laws and customs, Princess Naerys should hold precedence over all ladies of the land but frail and sickly as she was at the best of times, she was now preoccupied with trying to keep her pregnancy safe. Because of that, Myriah was now the principal lady at court, the Princess; instead of utilizing her position and actually doing something meaningful, she spent her time in her chambers, with little Baelor, or chatting with the ladies. Now, Lelia was sorry that she had pretended not to see when Myriah secretly nursed her son. The Princess' duty was carrying her children to term and give birth to them, nothing more. She had more important tasks ahead of her: she should assert herself before one or another of Prince Aegon's mistresses took over. For now, the King was fond of her and she held some sway with him but it would not last, should he deem her unworthy of consideration other than that of a complacent wife.

There was no running away from the facts, as much as Lelia hated to admit it: her vibrant, intelligent girl was turning into a boring matron, a Westerosi noble lady. There was nothing of her Dornish fierceness left. No doubt she would come back to herself once the child was born but by then, it might already be late. In the critical moment of forging ties with Dorne, Myriah was putting on airs, indulging herself in idling in a pregnancy that was as straightforward as one might get, and basically squandering her chances. Lelia could not let it happen.

"Let's get you properly attired, my lady," she said.

The thought of suffering the long process of being dressed and primped tired Myriah already before they even started. "Not now," she said, defiantly. "Now, I'll have a little rest." And she snuggled back in bed.

Lelia exploded. "That crowns all! When has a princess of Dorne ever slept her life away, let alone getting tired from… being tired? You are not a useless lady wife; you are a princess of Dorne and a princess of Westeros and you have certain responsibilities that for now, you're neglecting shamefully."

She had gone too far. Myriah half-rose in bed and glared at her. "That's enough. Now, get out of my sight."

"Right now," the woman snarled, "I'll happily go back to Dorne."

"I'll gladly pay for your passage," Myriah retaliated.

Her older Dornish ladies looked at her reproachfully bit the Westerosi attendants were stunned, looking from Myriah to Lelia and back. Myriah leaned back against her pillows and sighed. In truth, she and her nursemaid needed a respite from each other, very much. Lelia refused to realize that Myriah was no longer a little girl and could make her own decisions. She would not tolerate any reproach right now, vocal or not. For a while, she would accommodate Lelia and the others in a suite of rooms somewhere in the Red Keep… as far away from her chambers as possible. And when her fatigue wore down, maybe they'd be able to have a decent conversation once again. She was fond of Lelia and did not want to see her go. She just didn't want her nursemaid interfering so much and she most certainly didn't want Lelia scolding her in front of others, as if she were still a child.

The solution was perfect. Lelia wouldn't find it so but Myriah would have to learn to be a queen and not a child. And she would start now.


	9. Back to Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is a gory one but right now, in Myriah's eyes the future is not looking so good either.

_The moon was bright and as round as Mors' ball. And it was not like the sun at all. She could look at it without squinting. She was looking at it from time to time as she was trying to count how many points the stars had and she was afraid that her second nursemaid, Soril, would come and take her to bed. But Soril was sleeping, as was Myriah's mother in her chambers, and Mors in his, and her father in the desert for where he had left a few weeks ago._ I am the only one awake _, she thought, quite pleased with herself, staring at the distant glow somewhere in the far end of Sunspear._

_And then, the palace guards gave sharp cries that were cut short, and the riders thundered in like a desert storm, shouting and waving blades and torches, riding all over those servants who had preferred to sleep in the open-air because of the swelter._

_Somewhere in the palace, someone screamed. Guards ran out to meet the attackers. Moonlight illuminated bare blades and faces contorted in battle rage. Myriah screamed and ran inside in the moment Soril gave a shriek at finding the girl's bed empty._

_The door was thrown open and a young man burst inside, sword in hand. "Come on!" he yelled and slapped Soril's hands that were trying to force Myriah into a dress. "What are you doing?! It doesn't matter now. Follow me."_

_The nursemaid grabbed the little girl's hand and followed him outside. Myriah felt the smell of fire and wept, for as young as she was, she knew that fire was the worst thing in Dorne. Panicked screams, running feet all over there, and not a single face since she was the shortest one in the hallways and no one stopped to bow and smile at her as they always did._

" _Faster!" her sword shield snapped and Myriah tried but her legs were simply too short for keeping up with his striding steps. Soril leaned over and grabbed her. Normally, Myriah would have flown into a rage because she hated being carried but tonight, she only clung to Soril, looking wide-eyed at the men-at-arms in unknown attire and the desperate fighting all over her. A hand reached to grab her and she screamed, and Soril jumped away. Ser Lamien whirled over and cut the hand off. The man howled and collapsed, holding the stump._

_But this moment of neglecting his own opponent cost her sworn shield his defense. A sword slashed his shoulder and he grunted in pain and struck. The man slipped and fell, and Ser Lamien kicked him in the head before dragging Soril and Myriah towards a narrower hallway._

_All over the Tower of the Sun, there were shouts and flames. All around, the attackers were cutting down those who fought and those who ran. When they were near a small door leading to a back garden, Ser Lamien was bleeding from seventeen places – Myriah had recently learned to count – but Myriah herself was intact. He had always managed to go between her and the blades._

" _Just a little more," he promised them. The dark door was so near._

_And then it burst open from the other side and Ser Lamien said an ugly word. This time, the flashing swords preventing him. One of them cut Myriah's cheek and with the same motion fell her nursemaid. The girl cried out but Ser Lamien grabbed her as Soril's body hit the ground and he ran back inside._

_They were now caught between the attackers and the fire. Ser Lamien opened the door of the first room they saw and pushed Myriah inside before turning back, his sword ready._

_Myriah ran for the balcony and for the first time saw the real size of the catastrophe. The palace roof was in flames, the trees in the gardens were burning. Behind her, the smoke was filling the room. She wanted to jump but it was so high and the yard was filled with those men shouting and cutting. She huddled into a ball, weeping._

_And then, a voice, a roar of pain and fear. "Princess!"_

_Ser Lamien! She rose and turned to him, and shrieked. He staggered up at the balcony. His clothes were on fire. He screamed out into the night and a rider below them reined his horse in and looked up. His cloak might have been white once but by now, it was a mess of brown and red, mud and blood._

_The two men stared at each other. Then, Ser Lamien shouted something that made Myriah cringe. He picked her up and threw her over the railing. As she fell, she saw him collapse on the balcony, becoming a huge human torch._

Myriah shot up in bed as far as her belly would let her, her mouth open in a silent scream. Next to her, Daeron stirred and opened his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked sleepily.

Reality came back to her and she tried to slow down the frantic beating of her heart. "Nothing," she said. "Go back to sleep."

Unfortunately, he didn't. Instead, he lit a candle and his too fair hair and those unnatural purple eyes came into full view. Myriah barely contained from kicking him viciously – or at least trying to. Her feet were so swollen that those days, she considered herself lucky if she could take part into putting her own slippers – the new ones made hastily a few weeks ago – on her feet. But if he came nearer and slightly down in bed, maybe she could…

All of a sudden, she wanted to weep. Tears of shame sprang to her eyes. What was she doing? Daeron was so tender and patient with her and she wanted to hurt him because of something that, objectively, was not his fault. She couldn't dream of a better husband, so why was she doing her best to make him feel bad?

She snuggled up to him, disgusted at her thoughts and the tears that had now started pouring down her cheeks. At least the babe felt that there was nothing to fear and had stopped kicking.

Daeron started stroking her hair. "What can I do for you, Myriah?" he asked. "How can I make you feel better?"

"You can't," she sniffed. "No one can. I am so tired, Daeron. I am tired of bad sleep, nausea, and swollen extremities. Even my face is bloated! I'll never be myself again."

"Hush," he said. "We're never putting you through this again, I promise… It's not worth it…"

She rested her elbow on the bed and glared at him. "You're only saying it because it isn't you who has to go through it," she cried, her tears now not of self-pity and regret but anger. She was going through this only to please those who had inflicted such wrongs upon her homeland? It was so unfair. "But in a year or two, you'll forget all about it and you'll tell me that it wasn't so bad and that you want another one but it _really_ isn't worth it, I am telling you…"

Daeron let her rage and weep until she was worn out. When she finally fell asleep, still sniffling, holding his hand over her belly, he closed his eyes with the thought that they'd be lucky if they survived this pregnancy with both their sanities intact.

The birth was still a month away – a month that Myriah had to fill with embroidery, women talk, and pushing her belly through the halls. At least this time she had been spared the rusty spots on her face and neck that she had suffered in her first pregnancy.

 _Lelia was right_ , she thought the next day as she was listening to the latest bit of gossip her ladies had to share _. Now, I have no choice but sit here and engage in these meaningless activities but why didn't I do something better with my time when this disgusting belly wasn't hindering me so?_ If she heard another bit of talk about velvet and wine, she would scream. How had it come to this? Why was she surrounded by the silliest women at court? _Because you didn't bother to choose, you just accepted whomever they gave you and you didn't bother to seek out some smarter ones_ , a voice that sounded awfully like her brother's replied in her head. Lately, even her conversations with Ilena consisted mainly of trivialities. And since her goodmother, slowly recovering from the difficult birth, was too busy with her babe – Daenerys was as adorable as Baelor had been ugly, - the younger woman had been left to her own devices. _I can at least find out some smarter company_ , Myriah mused _. And actually, do I really have to wait until I give birth? I know I am expected to go to confinement and I will but… later._

She was so engrossed in her plans that she almost failed to notice the girl who came tentatively toward her, eyes downcast, slender body encased in grey. A servant girl but not of her own household. "Your Grace, I beg your leave," the girl muttered. She was a few years younger than Myriah, a tiny thing who had probably never seen royalty close.

Myriah smiled at her. She had seen many such girls. Each time she left the Tower of the Sun or traveled around Dorne, she was surrounded by them and they all begged for a piece ribbon from her hair or a little lace from her gown, as if anything that had touched her skin would bring them luck.

Lady Tarbeck stood between them. "Her Grace does not wish to be disturbed. Off with you, girl."

"No, child, stay," Myriah said quickly. Ilena moved around Lady Tarbeck to the trembling child. She was not surprised by Myriah's reaction at all. In Dorne, the Princess' mother had always taught her children that they should be unfailingly kind to those who served them because kindness, not pride, was the real mark of royalty.

"Come to Her Grace, child," Ilena said. "What is it?"

The girl made a clumsy attempt at curtsying that would have set some of the ladies for laugh, had Myriah and Ilena not glared at them warningly.

The girl murmured, "It's your ladies. They begged me to tell you that they were… that they were prisoners. And there was this boy of your retinue. Garin Sand. He asked me to tell you his mother was ill."

The babe kicked furiously around the cold hole forming in Myriah's belly. She took a deep breath and stroked her stomach through the gown. The child obediently calmed down, enjoying the attention, as she had known it would. She motioned. "Ilena, come with me. We're going to our ladies." She looked at Lady Tarbeck and stopped her attempt to join them before the woman could make it. "On our own, my lady."

The little girl hurriedly led the way through a quarter of the Red Keep Myriah had never ventured in, and for a good reason – it was so dilapidated that servants came here only to clean once a month. When the child started descending a staircase, Ilena looked at Myriah with visible concern – she was worried that the staircase might fall apart. "My lady, you shouldn't…"

"Give me a hand," Myriah interrupted, because she didn't trust the railing.

Step by step, they descended to a floor that was kept worse than a stable. Stone floor strewn with straw, no windows, lots of mould. In the middle of the room – a cellar, maybe? – there were a few pallets and threadbare blankets. The five older women from Myriah's Dornish retinue had slept here, burning kindling for heat. The sight of the cinders on the floor made her ill.

They were now huddled together on one of the pallets, their clothing soiled, their frames gaunt, their faces sallow. Myriah was grasped by horror and remorse, as well as fury. How had that happened? She had told the Master of Coin to take care of their upkeep in a good place in the city. She had signed papers for it, she had paid out of her own purse, for the Mother's sake! She had only wanted to get rid of their muttering for a while and nothing more. She had believed she had seen to their well-being. How had it happened? For how long had they been here, like this?

She tried to kneel in front of her wetnurse but of course, she couldn't, so she reached down and touched her shoulder. "Lelia," she said. "Lelia, it's me. It's your Myriah."

The woman's eyes slowly opened; with sinking heart, Myriah saw in them the glow of fever. "Ah my child, " Lelia muttered. "You came. I knew you would."

Myriah took her shawl off and nodded to Ilena to wrap it against Lelia's shoulders. "How could such a thing happen?" she asked and looked around for someone who could give her answers. Garyn Sand slowly stepped forward. There was no warmth in his eyes. "Garyn, what happened?"

"What happened," the boy said, his eyes huge in his pallid face, "is that we were denied access to you, Princess. We were informed that you no longer need our services, so eventually we'd be returned to Dorne." He chuckled, dryly. "To tell you the truth, I was ready to walk over there but the lock on the door made it impossible."

Myriah believed him. The chief servant who held the keys for this part of the palace had only obeyed her own command to give them the keys – and the girl who brought the prisoners their daily meal had hidden behind a corner, terrified that she'd be found out as the one who had broken the order. _Whose order was it_ , Myriah wondered, furious. _Who would order for my women to be imprisoned and mistreated?_

"We'll better start with the Master of Coin," Ilena said, speaking out Myriah's own thoughts. "We'll get to the man who gave the orders."

Myriah nodded and followed her belly all around the room, taking in each sorry detail. "Garyn," she said. "You and Ilena take your mother to my chambers. As to the rest of you," she added, looking at the women, "wait here. You are in no state to walk, so I'll send people to have you brought to my rooms, too. And now, I have urgent business to attend to."

With each step she took toward the heart of the Red Keep, her rage grew. She was furious at the Master of Coin, at her own carelessness, at the fact that at the first test of her makings of a princess, she had failed. It was all good and nice to take care of her pregnancy and engage in occupations suitable for royal women but she had responsibilities for the people she had brought here – and she had shirked them for what exactly? For some more sleep in the morning? For a few more pieces of gossip? How could she have not checked how her ladies lived? She had only meant to teach them a lesson, make them treat her as a woman and not a child – and then she had gone and proved that she _was_ still a child. One that could not be trusted.

Her first impulse was to interrupt the meeting of the Small Council and demand an explanation from the Master of Coin right there but she reined it in. It would serve no purpose at all, except for making an enemy out of him. Besides, she was so angry that she would not be able to tell the truth in his lies. No, she had to wait… or not?

Her first thought was informing Daeron and insisting that _he_ gets to the bottom of this. But something in her heart told her that she shouldn't do this. She needed to get into her own, not rely on her husband doing her job for her.

 _The King_ , she thought. Viserys was an aloof man who was not close to anybody and was tolerant of too few – but he was a man one could trust. He was hard, and a man of political mind but could make the difference between right and wrong. She had watched him since her arrival at King's Landing and had found something about him that reminded her of her father, although the two could not be different in temper. Viserys Targaryen was a just and fair man. And besides, he liked her, Myriah could say. At least, he had before she was engulfed by the whole being a complacent wife and mother and nothing else thing.

She had almost reached his chambers when a gush of liquid over her thighs showed her that justice would have to wait.

* * *

_A few hours later…_

The Red Keep had turned into a place of frightened looks and stealthily whispered suggestions. The news that the Princess was giving birth a month earlier had flown all around King's Landing, finding Daeron on his way to a nearby manor where he was supposed to settle a dispute between two minor lords whose overlord had despaired with them. At hearing the news, Daeron had left them to their own devices and turned his horse back.

Of course, he was not allowed into Myriah's bedchamber, although a midwife had been so kind to come out and tell him that everything was going on normally.

 _Normally_ , Daeron thought. _What should normally mean when the timing is not normal?_ He sighed and entered Baelor's rooms, hoping that the little pester's antics would take his mind off the worry.

The tiny monster was not there.

Daeron blinked to make sure that he was seeing right. The little bed was not made up, the pillow was still warm, showing that Baelor had lain here mere moments ago. In the adjacent room, the nursemaid was going through the clothes she was going to dress him in. Now, Daeron remembered that a few days ago, Myriah had told him the child had learned to move on his own – now by crawling, now by the Seven knew how. Daeron looked all around the room. No Baelor. He looked in the adjacent room and found nothing but decided against telling the girl that the child was not there. She would go into hysterics when all they needed was to find him. Really, how far could a one-year-old who could not walk yet go?

Daeron went back into the nursery and to the next room. No child anywhere. In the third room, though… It was clear that it was the nursemaid's room. The table was turned over, the carpet was strewn with even layers of bread and jam from her breakfast. The tablecloth was thrown in a puddle of water. The pillow was thorn open, feathers flowing all over the room. Daeron followed the trail of small feet going to the bed. Under it, two violet eyes stared at him slyly. Daeron dragged him out and saw that like the room, his son was covered from head to toes in dust and odds and ends, as if he had made a tour through all the lumber rooms of King's Landing. Daeron sighed. "Come on," he said. "You need a bath."

Baelor's eyes widened in horror and his face fell. _But he understands the word_ , Daeron thought, surprised, and carried him to the nursemaid who gasped and started muttering excuses.

"Just wash him," Daeron said but it was not an easy thing at all because Baelor fought with all his might against the offending procedure.

 _Mother help me, is it always like this_ , Daeron wondered, fully expecting that the boy would knock the nursemaid out in his attempts to get out of the bath. _If it was up to me, I would have probably let him go dirty all over the place._

"Come on," he said because it was just too much for the girl. He was not going to witness an assault without helping the victim - and of course, with him here she wouldn't spank the little fury. "Let me help you."

Quite surprised by his new opponent, Baelor almost stopped resisting and stared at Daeron, astounded. Daeron pushed him a little down, took the towel, and started working on the jam. Baelor giggled, obviously forgotten that he disliked baths.

And then, a new odd and very nice feeling came over Daeron all of a sudden. It was both tenderness and pride, and the feeling that he was flying. _This is my son_ , he thought. And when he took him out and looked into his face, for the first time he didn't have the feeling that this new thing had robbed him of something. He felt as if he had been given a gift. He stood by and waited for the nursemaid to dress Baelor, half-expecting another outburst of resistance because the boy might decide that he wanted to go around naked...

"Come on," he said then. "You know what day is it today? You'll have a new brother or sister. Come with me. Let's wait together."

Baelor grinned, almost as if he understood. Daeron reached out and the boy placed his hand in his father's.


	10. Palace War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marriage had settled things for a while but now enmity finally rears its ugly head.

"Take him," Myriah whispered and looked at the cradle where her newborn slept. Aerys was the best babe ever, much quieter than Baelor had been as a month old. He almost never cried. Now, his soft whimpers alerted her that he'd start wailing any minute now and rouse Baelor who had finally gone to sleep.

Daeron rose and leaned over to take the child. Snuggled up to his mother, Baelor stirred but didn't wake up. Myriah held him a moment longer with the distinct feeling of regret that she needed to let him go. For the last frantic month with the untimely arrival of the babe, she had had no time for Baelor – she was either suckling Aerys or holding him since, for a reason the maesters still couldn't explain, he was calmer when it was his mother holding him – not his wet-nurse and not anyone else. Just Myriah.

By now, her body had almost recovered – and today, so had her mind. Now she was grateful to Daeron for taking Aerys from her arms last night, despite her strong protests, and handing him to the wet-nurse. "He is much stronger now, Myriah," he had said. "Before, he needed to be with you all the time but it is no longer so. And you need a good rest, too. Look at yourself! You haven't slept for a week, you wake up at each whimper and to crown it all, you're afraid that you'll squeeze him in your sleep or now even worse – that I will. Just give it a try for tonight, right?"

Now, Myriah felt that there she was not done for. She had had a night of uninterrupted sleep and she was ready to face whatever life had in store for her. And Aerys did not look tortured, either. She felt that she was done with taking him to sleep in their bed. Reluctantly, she released Baelor to Daeron who carried him out as quietly as possible. The sight of Aerys in Myriah's arms never failed to lead to anger and tears so removing him before the babe woke up was the only option.

She just missed him. She had spent so much time with him before and now, she barely saw him. Well, now that the babe had started to adapt better, things would change.

She rose to take Aerys before he started crying for real and placed him at the breast. To her relief, he had finally managed to tackle sucking and was gaining. She rubbed her chin against his soft head lightly and smiled when she realized that the pain in her breasts was fainter than what she had felt at the last feeding.

The wet-nurse appeared to take the babe as soon as Myriah was over. Although not very skilful, the girl was anxious to please. _She's afraid that we'll send her away now that my milk has finally come down_ , Myriah thought but she had already decided that she'd keep the young Amara in her household. The girl was far from stupid and despite her awkwardness that Myriah thought was due to the fact that she was a first time mother, she seemed to have a touch for dealing with children. Aerys would need a nursemaid soon.

"Take him," Myriah said. "I suppose he'll go to sleep as soon as you place him in the cradle."

"Yes, Your Grace," the girl said. "Such a good babe," she added. "He hardly ever cries."

"Yes," Myriah agreed. "But this way, you'll have more time for your own little one. Rufas, right?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Amara confirmed and blushed with delight that despite her own hardships, the Princess had bothered to remember.

As soon as she was alone, Myriah rose and undressed to go to the bathchamber. As always, she felt ridiculously happy that she could see her feet. She scrubbed her skin thoroughly and then washed her hair and tried not to notice how many hairs fell out. Lelia assured her that it was normal and would stop in a few months. Myriah couldn't wait.

She put on one of the gowns she had worn in the middle of her pregnancy and it fitted her; pleased that she looked as presentable as she could, she gave her son a last look and left her chambers, waving off Ilena's pleas to come with her. The set of her shoulders had alerted her lifelong friend that whatever she had planned, it couldn't be good.

The courtiers in the halls and hallways gave her looks of astonishment. Some even forgot to offer their obeisance. She was supposed to stay in her rooms until she "recovered" – and time-honoured custom dictated that her recovery would last for at least another turn of the moon.

But Myriah was young and healthy, her babe was healthy and thriving and it took no effort at all for her to cross the Red Keep to the buildings containing the administrative offices. Here, it looked like some of the people really didn't recognize her and she frowned. Now, she realized how much time she had spent inside, how she had barely left Maegor's Holdfast, too enraptured with Baelor and tired of her pregnancy to care.

"My lady?"

She was so deep in thought that she noticed the Dragonknight only when she almost bumped into him. He kept her upright and gave her a look of surprise. "My princess, what are you doing here?"

"I have a conversation to hold," she told him.

Once, a decade ago, Prince Aemon Targaryen had had the displeasure of getting well acquainted with Dornish hot tempers. And he suspected that he knew what it was that Myriah had set her heart upon. He didn't envy the poor bastard who would bear the brunt of her anger but really, what had happened to her attendants was truly vile. With a sigh, he decided that he couldn't leave her alone, although his watch with the King had just ended and he had a few hours before his next shift. "May I accompany you?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

With time, Myriah had come to find his company and silence soothing. And she always enjoyed their conversations.

"You can take me to the Master of Coin's office," she added and smiled at the approval written on his face. Following the money was always a right course.

Lord Torkhel Green Crest was a small man who looked even smaller in the vast room filled with cabinets and registers. He bowed anxiously to Myriah, obviously unsure what to make of her unexpected visit. His bald head glinted like copper in the sunlight.

Myriah took a seat and came straight to the point. "My Dornish attendants have suffered deplorable privations," she said with deliberate harshness. "How could it have happened, my lord? Why didn't you use the money allotted for their maintenance?"

He blinked. "Me, Your Grace? Why me?"

He looked so genuinely puzzled that Myriah's anger grew. Was he mocking her? Who did he think he was? "Because you are the Master of Coin," she said severely. "And I distinctly remember I gave _you_ the order. Unless His Grace has dismissed you without my being aware of it?"

His long fingers started tapping on the register in front of him. Myriah raised an eyebrow to show that she still expected answer. In the sunlight, tiny specks of dust were dancing between them. "No, my lady," he said.

"Then?" she insisted. "I gave the orders and papers to you in person. What am I to think, my lord? The purpose of my marriage to your prince was to forge a lasting peace between your people and mine. Should I assume that you were trying to sparkle a new war? His Grace will be very interested to hear it, I am sure."

The man went white. King Viserys' wrath was never as spectacular as Prince Aegon's outbursts but it was something no sane man in Westeros would want to attract. The King's cold, calculating mind would go for the most effective punishment, not the first one he could think of. And he wanted to preserve the peace. Besides, he was very fond of the young Dornishwoman.

Viserys was the king. There was no use of trembling in one's boots of the fear of the king in waiting if he brought upon himself the animosity of the king who was.

His decision made, the Master of Coins started flipping through the pages of the register. Myriah rose and approached. "See here: I submitted them for approval to Prince Aegon's treasurer. The Prince assured me that he'd take care of the overseeing of your attendants' arrangements since you were too faint in your delicate state to worry about such details."

Myriah barely contained her outrage. She was not surprised. Somehow, she had expected that her goodfather would have had a part in that. But the sheer audacity of this action stunned her. Such disrespect! Such disregard for her will!

But then, why shouldn't he? She had made his lie possible by containing herself within Maegor's Holdfast, too wrapped in her little domestic life while the storm had been raging all around. She should have been the one in charge of her household; she should have made sure that her orders had been followed. She should have. And she hadn't. For all she knew, her goodfather might have taken to reviewing her correspondence before she had the chance to. And she might have never found out. Myriah was furious at herself.

She slammed the register, almost taking the Master of Coin's fingers off. He looked at her and recoiled, as if he was seeing a madwoman who might strike him. Myriah drew a breath and composed herself enough to return to her seat and listen to his endless droning and explanations of money and expenditures. "This is all very interesting," she finally interrupted, "but right now, I only want to know how such a disaster could have occurred. All I wanted was a few rooms for my attendants – a few rooms in the Red Keep or a house in the city where they could have some rest and their needs met. I said this much to you. Instead, they almost died. I plan to address the matter immediately."

She rose and gave him an icy look. "I am Myriah of Dorne, my lord of Green Crest," she said. "Not Aegon Targaryen. And the only ones who attend to my affairs are my lord husband and myself. You'll do well to remember that."

She whirled around and left the room in a flurry of orange skirts. Prince Aemon followed suit. "I fear that you might be too impatient," he said as soon as they were alone. "I beg you, do not confront him now. You're too overwhelmed and may lose control."

She laughed angrily. "What does it matter?" she said bitterly. "He's made his disrespect for me abundantly clear. How I act will make no difference."

Aemon didn't say a word. The girl was right, of course. Aegon had been trying to isolate her from the people she had brought with her, to cut off her relations with her homeland, to make her more firmly Daeron's wife – as if there was anything that could make the relationship those two shared stronger! Aegon, of course, couldn't see it. Love was a feeling that he simply couldn't recognize.

"Come on," he said. If she was going to confront Aegon anyway, he might as well lead her through more deserted passages. Her anger was plain to see and he did not want to give the court more food for gossip.

Myriah accepted his hand and went down hallways, through suits of rooms that she had never been in, leading to the royal family's private apartments.

And then, both she and Aemon stopped dead in their tracks. She accidentally stepped on a section of a gown that had been discarded. A little further off in the deserted garden of herbs, a doublet could be seen.

The couple engaged in some… rigorous activity right against the wall could not be mistaken.

Aegon looked at them and leered.

The look Daena gave them showed quite clearly that the court faction against the Dornishwoman had just gained another member.


	11. Secrets and Weapons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. This story will rely on my now AU story In the Shadow of the Throne for some minor points, instead of the canon Dance with the Moon, Reach for the Sun.
> 
> Thanks for each review this story got. Thank you, Riana 1, for reviewing every. Single. Chapter.

Myriah's mind was swirling like a sandstorm, her thoughts hitting her like pebbles. She and Daena Targaryen had never got along but she had never given their dislike this much of a thought. Daena idolized her late brother, the Young Dragon, and was not shy of talking admiringly about his feats in front of Myriah who was not slow to retaliate that his feats had brought the daring king to an early grave. Daena was known to murmur about "the savage from the sands" while Myriah claimed that Daena needed time to adjust and function in the real world after being shut off for so long and that she had mentally stayed the age that she had been when Baelor had imprisoned her. Daena was daring and defiant while Myriah had the self-confidence that could not be acquired but was inborn – the kind of self-assuredness that maybe only being a woman brought up in Dorne could bring. Daena demanded things and fought for them, Myriah expected them as if they were her right. They were just vastly different personalities that could never get along, as different as Myriah and Naerys were. But with Naerys, Myriah could have a good relationship. With Daena, it was impossible. Myriah had always thought it was just that.

For how long had this been going on? No wonder the child had no trace of his supposedly non-dragon parent in his looks! Of course, Aerys would probably grow fair-haired and purple-eyed, too, so it was no guarantee but still…

Daena's defiantly mocking eyes put stop to these thoughts. Myriah raised her chin and turned to her goodfather.

"I need to talk to you," she said, looking straight at him. If he was thinking of using his nudity to scare her away, he was far off the mark. If he didn't feel uncomfortable staying naked in her presence, she would not show any discomfort either.

The surprise on his face was quickly replaced by anger. "Yes?" he asked. "What for?"

"The attendants I brought with me from my homeland had been terribly mistreated," Myriah said. "I was able to trace the order back to you. May I know what prompted you to such an act?"

"Mistreatment?" He raised an eyebrow. "Let me see… I'll try to remember…"

He looked deep in thought. If his aim was to innerve Myriah, he was quite close to achieving it. However, he also managed to innerve Daena, who, unlike him, clearly wasn't keen on standing naked in Aemon and Myriah's presence. She huffed, exasperated, squirmed her way past Aegon, swatted his hands away when he tried to hold her in place and made a step towards Myriah. Her face flushed when she realized that the younger woman had stepped on her gown.

Maybe Myriah should have bent down to give the gown to its owner. The truth, however, was that while she had recovered quite satisfactory, leaning over still made her dizzy, so she only stepped aside. Scarlet with rage and embarrassment, Daena leaned over to retrieve her gown and put it on as best as she could. Then, she stormed away, not looking at the intruders or Aegon.

"I thought it would be waste of your money," the Prince of Dragonstone finally said. "After all, it wasn't as if they weren't used to living in austere conditions. As far as I know, your mountains and desert aren't exactly luxurious."

Myriah's anger boiled but she kept herself in check. "Oh," she said. "And how would you know it? Did your cousin tell you, or was it your brother?"

The arrogance in his eyes flickered before returning and settling firmly back. "It was a very unfortunate misunderstanding," he said. "They are fine now, I hope?"

"Perfectly," Myriah confirmed. No matter how he provoked her, she would not flow at him. "In future, I would appreciate it if you leave the running of my household to me," she said coldly. "Thank you."

He shrugged, as if he didn't care either way. Behind them, Aemon coughed. Only now did Myriah realize that in her zeal for reckoning, she had found herself almost alone with a naked man in the garden. Aegon, of course, had expected of her to realize the implications earlier and save herself from the possible complications. That was exactly what Myriah wanted to do. Still, she lifted her chin.

"I am not sure how things are in King's Landing but in Sunspear, it is considered beneath a man to engage in household affairs," she claimed. "I hope this misunderstanding will not be repeated, Your Grace. I'd hate it to see peace… every peace… disturbed because of trivialities."

In his eyes, she saw exactly what she was scared that she would see; Aegon couldn't care less about peace. All he cared about were his own desires. She gave him a curtsy that in those circumstances he could interpret as deference or offence and left, very careful not to mend her pace.

"I can't believe it," she exclaimed as soon as they went out of her goodfather's earshot. "I can't believe no one knew."

"I can," Aemon said. While Baelor had been alive, Aegon would have been careful to keep the affair hushed because technically, it was high treason; now, with their father on the throne, the stimuli was still strong. King Viserys would never tolerate the relationship paraded in front of him.

When they turned around the corner, Myriah stopped and looked at him. "Do you think the boy is his?" she asked. For a moment, her thoughts went to poor Naerys who probably had no idea how totally Aegon had betrayed her. Having mistresses was one thing, but a relationship with another Targaryen woman was something that was far worse. It indicated that Naerys was terribly lacking.

"I suppose he is," Aemon said. "But she would say he is even if he isn't. That's just her way. I suppose Rhaena and Elaena have some idea but they won't tell. Not even you."

As much as she disliked Daena, Myriah was getting along fine with the other two princesses. Rhaena was so kind that it was impossible for one to stay angry with her; fiery Elaena had all of Daena's defiance but she also possessed the keen intelligence that stopped her from acting unreasonably – the kind of intelligence Myriah had seen in her mother and Lady Allyrion who ruled in her own right. After their release from the Maidenvault, she had done her best to befriend and integrate them into court life. But she knew that they wouldn't tell her the truth. After all, she would not spill out Mors' secrets either.

"It doesn't matter," the Dragonknight said, with a hint of harshness he displayed ever so rarely. "She can give birth to fifteen more boys, and it still won't matter. No one will be able to say for sure who their father is. And none of her children will ever sit the Iron Throne. Your Baelor will."

Up until now, Myriah had contemplated the relationship only in the terms of Aegon's terrible temper and disregard for both his wife and Daena. Now, the real implications came through. Her face went white. In this moment, the peace they had fought so hard to achieve seemed to be slipping right through her fingers.

* * *

_Three days later…_

Myriah waited the hour for breaking her fast like a convicted criminal waiting for his execution. Once a week, the entire family gathered for breakfast at the King's chambers and while for the last month she had missed those occasions, two days ago she had confirmed that she would be there. There was no way she could fake an illness now. She couldn't avoid the gatherings just because Aegon and Daena had made her feel uncomfortable. No way.

So she rose early, suckled Aerys and spent an extra amount of time taking care of her appearance. _I'll be damned if I show up there looking anything else but immaculate_ , she thought.

Still sprawled in the great bed, Daeron watched her amused. "Are we going to a formal reception I wasn't aware of?" he joked. "Or are you planning on slipping out and meeting with some lucky bastard while I am trapped there?"

She gave him a quick look in the looking glass as she rubbed a skin ointment into her face. She would not be surprised if the court expected it of her. They had been scandalized enough when Daeron had returned to their bed only a few days after the birth, breaking the rules of confinement. "Yes," she said, very seriously. "I found a new lover and I have to look my best for him."

Daeron laughed and rose to stand behind her and comb her hair – something he quite liked doing. The day before, Myriah had had her long hair cut, to the horror of all her attendants and everyone who saw her later. She claimed that she did not care – the only thing that mattered was that the hair loss was less evident now and the hair would supposedly regain its vitality more easily this way.

"Poor sod," he murmured, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. "He doesn't know that you still aren't quite ready."

"I am not, indeed," Myriah confessed. "When I am, I'll let him know immediately."

Under the playful tone, she was quite unwilling to talk about lovers and affairs. She hadn't told Daeron what she had witnessed and she didn't think she ever would. It was just too ugly, too embarrassing – and humiliating for Naerys. It would also create additional tension between Daeron and Aegon and the Seven knew those two did not need more frictions. But Myriah felt guilty for withholding the truth. That was the nature of the love she had come to feel for her husband – the desire to share everything with him, not to hold a single thing for herself, be it good or bad.

"I can't wait," Daeron murmured, quite grateful that this time around, she hadn't stopped noticing him because of the newborn. Not that this fact could make him particularly loving towards Aerys. After the moment when he had been able suddenly, miraculously able to perceive Baelor, he had expected that he'd feel the same love for the child who would be born very soon. Nothing like this had happened. Protectiveness, concern – yes, he felt those. But there was very little love involved. Aerys was his responsibility and not much else, yet his presence didn't irritate Daeron like Baelor's had. Now, both he and Myriah entered the next room to see him sleeping in his cradle with the wet-nurse knitting nearby before they headed for the King's private chambers.

When they entered, the tension left Myriah's body. Daena was not present and neither were her sisters. Aegon, though, had come in time, sitting with a bored expression next to Naerys. Aemon, for once not in his white cloak, was deeply engrossed in conversation with his father. Myriah curtsied at Viserys and took her seat. "How are you, my lady?" she turned to Naerys. Her goodmother had such a fair complexion that it was hard to say for sure but it looked like some of her paleness had gone away.

Naerys smiled and assured her that she was fine.

"I am pleased to hear it because I intend to host a supper soon," Myriah announced. "It'll be a strictly female affair and I hope you'll be able to attend."

Naerys' eyes flickered with curiosity. She had heard that such gatherings were quite usual in Dorne but it would be the first time that such an affair took place in King's Landing. She was just about to accept when the door opened.

"Your Grace," the servant announced, "Her Grace Princess Alaena Targaryen begs for you to receive her."

Ding! The goblet Aegon had just been raising to his lips clattered on the floor. Naerys gaped. Aemon smiled slightly and the King actually… _smirked_? It lasted only about a second, though, so Myriah might have imagined it.

"Show her in," Viserys said. "She's always welcome."

"Why it is that I am not surprised?" Aegon muttered in a low voice.

Bursting with curiosity, Myriah looked at the door. She had heard about the Targaryen princess' reputation… but if the family's reaction was anything to go by, this was one of those rare occasions when reality surpassed reputation.

The woman named Alaena entered the dining room a few minutes later, curtsying at the threshold. Then, she curtsied once again in the middle of the room. In the beginning, all Myriah could see was a slender back in dark velvet. Without looking at anyone else, the newcomer went straight to Viserys to curtsy for a third time right in front of his chair. "I wish Your Grace a long and successful reign," she said.

He huffed. "So, that's how you're going to play it this time? The loyal subject?"

She turned around to have a look at the room and Myriah saw her face for a first time: purple eyes and auburn hair, a warm smile, a perfect beauty untouched by time. Myriah estimated her age at about forty. Her condition was obvious. Aegon smirked.

Without paying him any mind, the woman turned back to the King. "Come on, Viserys, tell me that you aren't angry with me."

"You know that I am," he retorted.

"Then tell me that you'll forgive me."

"You know I always do," he said, his tone no warmer than before.

"Don't we all know it," Aegon said. "I am surprised to see you here, and in your condition, my lady. Everyone knows that sea travel carries risks to unborn children, especially when their mothers are not in their first bloom. I cannot imagine you wanted to give birth in the ship."

She whirled around, her eyes meeting his. "I can give birth wherever, whenever, and however I want. You, on the other hand, can't do it anywhere, never, and in no way. So, you see, it's quite ridiculous to dispense advice about childbirth when you have a pendant hanging between your legs, and not a womb."

Looking at the stunned fury on Aegon's face – he could not give it free reign since the King was looking at him darkly, - Myriah already knew who would be the next woman she would invite to her supper.


	12. Now and Then

It was a warm clear day. The pale morning sun touched the road with golden hand, spreading faint glow that seemed to engulf those who rode at the head. On both sides of the wide road, there were hills, dark and grassy. Here and there, a rock showed its bare grey face. The grass of the lower hill was relieved by vibrant white and yellow flowers. Perched atop her snowy sand mare, Myriah tried to imagine the area as it had been before the first dragon landed here. It was next to impossible to believe that this large smelly city, with its long broad road, had once been almost uninhibited.

"Are we there?"

Myriah looked at her companion and suppressed the irritation threatening to lead to a biting remark that no, they were no more there than the last time Rhaena Targaryen had asked which was about a mile ago. The girl had good intentions and Myriah tried to be more understanding of her situation. The Mother knew that after ten years in the Maidenvault, an hour of riding would probably look too long for her, too.

 _The girl_ , she thought, suddenly all too aware that Rhaena was about five years her elder. But life was not measured in years only, it was measured in what one had experienced – and Baelor's madness had robbed Rhaena of experience, more than anything else. Rhaena – and her sisters.

 _Maybe that's the reason Daena went with Aegon,_ she realized. _No matter what, he can be charming to women._ Aegon could never fool her, of course – but she had not spent half her life in a golden cage, with no chance to recognize a man's true nature when she saw it. Maybe Daena really believed Aegon loved her. Myriah did not believe it for a moment. Aegon was unable to love anyone else but himself.

Rhaena did not know much about men and life, either, and Myriah was surprised to hear that she only had one desire: to become a septa. Even Naerys who was almost one agreed that no one should enter the Faith unless they were sure what they were about to forsake. That was why Rhaena had reluctantly agreed to stay at court for a year and be sure that becoming septa was truly her vocation. Generally, she did not enjoy court functions but she had expressed a desire to accompany Myriah who intended to visit a nearby village, terribly damaged by a fire and see what could be done for the people there. They were accompanied by Ilena Allyrion, Garyn Sand, Lady Malora Darklyn, and the Dragonknight. Twenty household knights guarded them from close distance and about fifty men-at-arms had surrounded the wagons with foods and clothes.

Rhaena breathed the air hungrily, her face awed; with a jolt of compassion, Myriah realized that it was the first time in more than ten years that the other woman filled her lungs with something else than the heavy air of King's Landing. Although they were sheltered by the smell there, at the top of Aegon's Hill, the very fact that they shared their space with tens of thousands people in the Red Keep was enough to pollute the air. Not that Myriah had noticed it for too long – after Baelor's birth, she had barely left the palace, a mistake she vowed not to repeat.

All of a sudden, the white mare started snorting, moving her ears, shaking. She halted to a stop and started moving backward.

Myriah spurred her on, stunned. In all their years together, the mare had never been whimsical. She had only behaved like this a few times in the desert when…

Before she could form the thought fully, her mouth opened into a startled cry. Before they could stop him, someone emerged from the bushes on the sides of the road, grabbed the mare's reins and started babbling incoherently.

Myriah saw the fallen little finger, the cracked skin, the mottled black and grey that was his face. Through his tattered clothes, she could see that his shoulder was no better. Gripped by revulsion and fear, the retinue scattered, screaming, "Grey plague! Grey plague!"

Prince Aemon spurred his horse towards the wretch. "Let go of the reins!"

The man drew back, as if he was a dog that had been scolded. But by then, the knights had arrived, their swords gleaming in their hands.

"No!" Myriah screamed. A moment later, Rhaena realized what was going to happen and shrieked, "Don't!"

But they were too late to stop the strike; before their voices could reach the men, the grey plague sufferer fell down in pieces.

"Bloody cur!" someone called out. "If we've told them once, we've told them a hundred times not to wander anywhere near the main roads. There are enough forests and caves in the realm!"

Aemon helped Myriah and Rhaena dismount and led them behind a turn of the road, so they would not have to watch at the gory sight. Shaking, they sat on two stumps, not saying a word. Their people tried to distract them but they would not listen.

Finally, Myriah sighed and shook her head. "It can't go on like that," she said. 'No, it can't. These are people, like us… We have to take care of them. Forests and caves… they are for animals… We can't…"

Rhaena rose all of a sudden. A moment later, the others also heard. A soft whinnying, just behind the curve. Myriah's face went a touch paler. The snowy sand mare her father had gifted her with when she was still a child, the companion that had gone all the way from Dorne with her, the mare that had been touched by the grey plague sufferer's hand – she had to go.

Myriah looked down once again, unwilling to let the others see her face. After a while, they felt the smoke in the air, saw its grey spiral rising upwards. The men had given the corpses of the sick man and the splendid animal to the flames of the fire they had made.

"I want to tend them," Rhaena said. Her purple eyes shone with tears, her lovely face was ashen. "How could we have left them live… like this?"

Myriah sighed. As noble as Rhaena's intentions were, she was only human. There was only this much that she could do. No, they had to do something using their position, not their hands.

"We'll commission an asylum for them," she said, the details growing clear in her head as she spoke. "Far from the places where the others live. No one who can enter it will be able to leave. Ever. And we'll use their estates and money to support the asylum but the great part of it will be supported by my own purse. There are enough places in the realm that we can safely choose from… And we can start raising funds right now. I'll start with three hundred dragons…"

Aemon suggested a few names of builders who could undertake the project. Rhaena promised to make inquiries about septas who would be willing to tend the sick ones.

"And Daeron can assign maesters to study the nature of this disease more broadly," Myriah added. "I'll talk to him. I know he'll be willing."

 _They are trying to relieve the horror they just went through_ , Aemon thought. _And they have no idea that they are talking about a new Westeros – one that they can build if they are given a chance to. If Aegon lets them to._ For Aemon, ever kept at his father's side by his duties, was aware of something he could not tell anyone. He knew that his father King Viserys did not have long to live.

* * *

_Two days later…_

It was late in the night and Myriah sat with Aerys in her arms and watched Baelor practicing his newly acquired skill of dragging a chair to the table and climbing on it, so he could sit on the table. He looked so proud of his accomplishment that she had to smile. This child had never learned how to walk – he had gone from crawling to running, with no in between, and she was amused at his astonishment at discovering the world… up until the moment he started to shred the fringes of the tablecloth.

"No," Myriah said firmly.

He smiled at her charmingly and reached for the fringe again.

"No," she said again, more sharply.

He gave her a calculating look and his hand sneaked for the fringe again.

She left the babe on the cushion and rose. Baelor promptly drew his hand back.

"He doesn't do it out of malice, you know," Ilena said. "It's just so very interesting."

"I know," Myriah agreed. "But I don't have free tablecloths to demolish, just as I don't have an extra child to be bitten because it's so interesting to bite."

Last week, Baelor had repeatedly tried to take off his brother's cheek. Myriah had suffered just two such attempts of his when stern voice, gentle words, and removing him had not helped. After feeling his mother's hand on his cheek, he had given up on his exploration – permanently, it seemed.

"Come on," Myriah told her son. "Come to me."

He did and snuggled happily against her, this time making no attempt to push the offending babe aside.

After a while, she kissed them before rising and handing Aerys to Ilena. Baelor placed his hand in his nursemaid's hand and let her take him out of the room.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Myriah said. "If he's hungry, he'll have to wait. But I don't think he will be for another hour."

"Where are you going, my lady?" Ilena asked.

Myriah headed for her bedchamber to change attire. "I am going to see the King," she said. "If he'll receive me."

Even in this late hour, he did, just as she had expected and she barely contained the startled gasp at the sight the dying fire in the huge fireplace revealed to her. She had seen him just a few hours ago at the evening feast but now, he seemed to have changed as if by magic. Divested of his finery and dressed in simple blue robes, his grey hair falling freely, he was terribly gaunt, his eyes burning with fever, his face ghostly pale. Princess Alaena sat in the big chair opposite to his near the fireplace; Aemon, freshly relieved of his duty, had taken a seat near the window but at Myriah's entrance, he rose and bowed.

"Take a seat, child," Viserys said. His voice was soft and tired. Myriah realized that he was making her the greatest gift possible – his trust in her not to reveal his weakness, his level of comfort with her to let her see him like this.

Alaena started to rise but Myriah shook her head and just dragged a chair next to the King.

"What do you need of me?" he asked.

All of a sudden, it didn't look so important but she said it anyway. "I trust that you've heard about the terrible… misunderstanding with my retinue?"

Not a muscle moved on his face. "I've heard," he confirmed.

She looked him in the eye. "I believe they deserve compensation, Your Grace," she said. "I think a publicly shown royal favour would do justice lots of good."

To her surprise, he didn't hesitate. "And a few gifts, as well?" he suggested.

 _It's been a test all along_ , Myriah realized. He had given thought to the way of showing disapproval that such a _misunderstanding_ had been allowed to happen but he had been waiting for her to approach him, to see whether she was truly a princess of courage and spirit, or someone who would never dare defy Aegon. She wouldn't be surprised if he had the gifts chosen already.

"I'll do it immediately," he said. "In a few days, in fact. I believe this'll suffice?"

She nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace," she said. "I… I didn't know what to expect. Thank you."

Her own confession surprised her but he only nodded. "We who are in this room," he said. "We all cherish peace, Myriah. Every one of us."

Involuntarily, her eyes went to the white figure near the window and Viserys smiled. "Yes," he said. "Even Aemon. Especially Aemon, maybe."

Something about the way the flames danced on Aemon's face, bathing it in light and plunging it in shadows where only his fair hair shone, and sometimes painting scarlet lines on his cheeks, made her gasp. She felt faint.

Alaena rose and brought her a goblet of watered wine as fast as her swollen body would allow her. Myriah drank without looking. Her eyes were fixed on Aemon who stared back with eyes as deep as Daeron's, with regret Daeron's had never held.

"We met in the night of fire, didn't we, Aemon?" she asked softly, scared of the answer.

His face fell. "I hoped you'd never remember," he said simply.

 _He must have_ , she thought bitterly. What had happened at that night had been anything but honourable and Aemon lived for his honour.

His face twisted. "I thought of that night for years in a row," he said. He was not looking at her but through her, as if he relived _her_ nightmare. "The attack. The destruction. And the scream. I looked up and saw the burning man on the balcony above."

"Ser Lamien cursed you, didn't he?"

He nodded. "He screamed at me to save you or burn in the seven hells. Then he lifted you and threw you over the railing without knowing whether I could catch you. Or whether I would," he added softly. "For a moment, I thought I wouldn't succeed."

In the silence that followed, Princess Alaena laughed bitterly. "No doubt that's what Daeron meant when he prattled about glory," she spat. "Warring on children was always a part of it, after all."

Startled, Myriah looked at her. The woman's face was twisted in fury against someone who had been dead for ten years and more. Alaena caught her looking and Myriah blushed.

Viserys reached out and covered Alaena's hand with his. That was the first time Myriah saw him touching someone else than her children on his own will.

"I lost my sons in that senseless war of Daeron's," Alaena said briefly by the way of explanation. "They were just seventeen… since then, my hatred for the manfulness to fight has increased threefold. Unfortunately, even Viserys could not stop the young fool."

"You'll have to stop Aegon when I'm gone, though," Viserys said. "Because if it is left to him, he'll start it all over again."

He was talking to all of them. But Myriah could feel that he was addressing her only.

 


	13. A Beginning and an End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it matters more than you know!

Smiling, Aemon leaned over the huge piece of parchment where right and curved lines met and melted into each other into rectangular shapes, circles, and something resembling turrets. A single double-line ran along the entire length of the parchment. It would be a hallway, as the head of the masons explained. "And it'll be replicated on the upper floor, too," he finished. "There'll be windows in all the rooms…"

"But they must be bigger," Daeron interrupted. "Maesters say the afflicted ones need as much light as possible. And fresh air, as well."

"Where will it be?" Aemon asked. In fact, he was very well aware but he just loved having the young people explaining it to him – Daeron, Myriah, Elaena, Rogar Redtree, Ilena Allyrion, a few of their companions. Rhaena was drawing something on another piece of parchment, looking at the sketch from time to time to check for details. Knights from King's Landing sat near men from Sunspear. Youths from the Reach shared secret looks with girls from the Red Mountains. They were so young, so full of life and excitement, so sure that they could change the world for the better. It warmed his heart, made him think that such a thing was possible while they lived, that they could be the change they wanted to see.

"Gerlon here has found the perfect place, Uncle," Daeron said. "A little away from the road between Highgardens and Oldtown. A big plane, almost uninhabited. We can build the asylum there, with no one to disturb the sufferers. We already have maesters and septas ready to attend them…"

Now, Aemon felt fond amusement. They were all so enthused, so sure that it would work out that they had even engaged the masons, sending their head there to take sketches of the land – without having an idea that between Megon Tyrell and Godfred Hightower, the land would cost them all their income for a year, at least. Maybe two. Myriah's famous star sapphire that she wore on an intricately woven silver chain would probably have to go, too.

The sun was streaming through the open windows in huge bright waves. From the gardens beyond, birdsongs and children's giggling made him think of innocence and joy for the sake of joy. At the top of Aegon's Hill, the stench of King's Landing was not discernible. All the wind carried was the fresh scent of new growth. But just a ward and a few hallways away, the King who had been the very embodiment of stability throughout Aemon's life was so close to the end of it all… Aemon fervently prayed for Viserys to live, not only because of the King himself but because of those young and hopeful people gathered here. Aegon would gladly crush their faith, tear the peace they had finally come to find apart.

"When are you planning to talk to your lord father, Ser Garlon?" Aemon asked, trying to find his serenity again.

The heir of the Reach grinned. "Why, good Ser, I left that in someone else's capable hands. The land is already ours. I assumed the responsibility to check on the building works each time I go home."

Already theirs? Aemon looked at them and Myriah couldn't stop herself: she laughed.

Daeron grinned. "We found a formidable fiscal brain here," he said. "She brought our two noble lords to their knees in no time at all."

Aemon followed his nephew's eyes and his own widened when they stopped at the young woman who could barely hide her smile. "When you become our sovereign," she said nonchalantly, "maybe you'll appoint me Master of Coin?"

Daeron didn't even bat an eyelid. "Gladly," he said.

_Myriah is just as much influence on him as Naerys complains_ , Aemon thought. Personally, he liked that fact better than his sister did.

Elaena rose. Her crimson gown caught the sun and the darker streak in her silver hair lit like a river of dark gold when she stepped up to Daeron and touched his lips with hers. "I thank you," she murmured in a deep voice. She wasn't quick to step back and he smiled and shook his head.

"As touched as I am, you'd better step back before Myriah decides where she should dig the dagger she's holding."

He wasn't looking at his wife. He was with his back to her, yet it looked like he had a pair of eyes on the back of his head because when everyone looked at Myriah, she was holding a small, dangerously looking dagger of gleaming steel. There weren't even gems in its hilt. It was entirely functional.

Smiling, Elaena stepped back. "I didn't mean to offend you, my lady," she said.

"I am not offended," Myriah assured her. "You can try it again, just make sure to do it at time when I am not with child. Not being able to see my feet makes me… irritable."

The two women gave each other smiles of accord. Aemon took his jaw back from the floor and looked back at the plans. On his left, Rogar Redtree eyed his betrothed warily. "Is this a Dornish thing?" he asked. "Are Dornish ladies in the habit of carrying daggers about their persons?"

Ilena Allyrion only smiled suggestively. The young man swallowed but stood where he was. A brave man, this one. In his place, Aemon would have considered the option of running all the way to the Riverlands. But it looked like there would be a new thread in the fabric of their peace. A new happy relationship between a man of the Seven Kingdoms and a Dornishwoman. They needed each slender wisp, anything they could get to fight Aegon's inclinations.

_Please_ , Aemon prayed. _Please let it be enough._

But the Seven had long ago stopped listening to him.

* * *

_The same night…_

"You're working again."

The King looked up and smiled. "What am I expected to do?"

Princess Alaena strode to him, giving him a stern look. "Resting from time to time. You are never going to recover if you lose your rest for working as well."

He inhaled the scent of the candles. Beeswax – one of the little pleasures he cherished. His finery, the dainty food, the soft bedclothes he could give up in a minute if need be. But beeswax for his candles was something he insisted on. Tallow candles stank too much, almost suffocating him. "Just a little more."

Alaena had brought her sewing basket along but she left it on the nearest coffer without opening it. Instead, she leaned over to have a look at the tome in Viserys' hands. An Andal book on law. She quickly found the pertinent lines and sighed when her worst suspicions were confirmed, then reached out and took the book out of Viserys' hands. "Viserys," she insisted. "Let it be."

He gave her a chilly look but didn't raise his voice. He rarely did. And even if he was the one to do so frequently, she doubted he had the strength right now. Fulfilling his duties and attending the evening feast consumed all of his energy, so he now saw his bedchamber as a refuge where he could shed the weight of the world off. "I cannot let it be," he said. "I hoped…"

His voice trailed. He let her remove the book without trying to stop her. All their searching and looking through archives and books led to nothing. There was no legitimate reason to remove Aegon from the line of succession – and if they tried, that would lead to a new Dance of Dragons. The very thought of that made them both shiver. Aegon would become king. There was no way around that.

"Maybe if we consult the Master of Law…" she suggested.

The look that he gave her said it all. Viserys didn't dare consult the man because his sense of right and wrong would not let him become a complicit into something that had no legal basis. He'd likely warn Aegon immediately. Ironically, Viserys had elevated him exactly because of his sense of right and wrong. Throughout his life, he had been trying to give peace and law to the realm. Now, he was reduced to go skulking in the shadows looking for a legal way to do something against the law, finding none.

"You have to go away," he said. "You have to leave Westeros as soon as your husband's ship comes back to port."

She took a seat opposite him, near the fireplace that could no longer get them warm, no matter how hot the fire was, and poured him some mulled wine. "I've only just come."

"And now you have to leave. Aegon never liked you. He won't tolerate you here, Alaena. I'm afraid he might do you harm."

Tears sprang to her eyes. All those years ago, she had been forced to leave out of fear of the new king Baelor doing her harm. He had already announced his intention to have her wed again – and to a man, who would safely tear her away from her wanton ways. A lout who was notorious for his treatment of women. The night of her flight was still alive in her mind – the opened coffers, Alysse sewing jewels hurriedly into Alaena's gowns, the handmaidens who ran about with their heads lost. How she had thrown clothes into a travelling coffer, weeping for her sons and cursing Daeron and Baelor to the seven hells! Her thumping heart as she went past the bought sentinels… The darkness of the night sky against the pale expanse of the sea… The ship…

"I cannot leave now, Viserys. Not before I give birth."

"But shortly after?"

The concern in his eyes brought her to tears once again. Viserys was not a man who showed his affection for all to see but it was there, should one know where to look for it. He wouldn't have her come to harm if he could avoid it. He had avoided it her entire life, since he was a child himself.

"No," she said. "I've wanted for so long to come home. And if I go now, we might never see each other again."

"We might," he agreed through the swirl of thoughts and colours in his head. He closed his eyes and reached for his goblet. "I am so happy that you are ready to stay with me," he murmured. "I keep telling myself that I shouldn't but I am happy anyway."

Alaena reached blindly for the flagon, poured herself a glass goblet of mulled wine as well. All his life, he had placed the realm first. All other considerations, all other relationships had ranked second – and that was something very few people could understand. Those who could _accept_ it were even fewer. But the realm did not have a heart. No matter how much Viserys loved it, it would never love him back. And now, when he was aging and vulnerable, when he was about to die, he could not expect understanding out of those he had neglected and placed second all his life. Alysse and Aegon were dead. Alaena was the only other living soul who knew what it had been like for the four of them, the helplessness, anger, and bitterness that had marred their childhood and early youth, the forces that had driven all their actions, their desperate need to make the realm steady, _secure_ , pouring their lives and blood into its foundation. Now, when the end was so near, he was more of a man and less of a King – and he was so lonely, so terribly lonely, for there were so few of those who truly cared about the man.

Somehow, she managed to smile and reached for his hand. "I am happy too," she said.

And she was. For them, happiness was always laced with the dark blood of tragedy lurking underneath.

 


	14. The Death of an Era

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed.

The little girl kept her mother's eye for a moment or two before closing her own dark eyes tiredly. Alaena laughed and cuddled her, lay down, placed the baby on top of her. "You're such a sweetheart, precious," she crooned and chased away the ghosts haunting the nursery, her twin boys whose lives Daeron's stupid conquest had taken. Now she had another life, another husband but the shadows of her old ones still crept in to torment her, make her look around expecting people who were no longer there. So many of them…

For a while, she stayed with her daughter in her arms but then she rose and called the nursemaid. "Good night, little one," she said softly. Lyselle purred, feeling her mother's kiss in her sleep, and then Alaena went out, crossed the silent palace, entered the King's chambers. The two Kingsguard at the door of the bedchamber stepped aside to let her in. By now, everyone had become accustomed to her constant presence at Viserys' side, from the moment she woke up in the morning to the small hours of night when he would finally sink into a tortured slumber and she would drag her tired body to her own chambers to catch some much needed rest. Her chambermaids complained that she hadn't had a fitting for a new gown in months, even after the birth was over. She barely saw even her newborn but Lyselle was well taken care of, growing rapidly and becoming more alert with each passing day – and they would have time to be together after… well, after. The very thought of it made her want to weep but Viserys' state left no doubts as to what would happen.

"He's sleeping," Naerys murmured when Alaena entered the bedchamber. "He's been waiting for you but he managed to go to sleep."

"Glory to the gods," Alaena murmured and Naerys nodded.

The older woman contained her irritation – barely, for while she had just meant it like a sigh of relief that Viserys would catch some rest, Naerys was truly grateful to the Seven. The shade of Baelor, very unwelcome, slid in the room. Piety was a good thing but not when one went over the top!

"I'll take over from now on," Alaena said firmly. "Go and do something nice for yourself. Come back later if you want."

Naerys nodded again. She would, out of obligation if not much love. Alaena could not truly fault her. Viserys had been a very stern disciplinarian, preoccupied with propriety and duty, and the affairs of state had left him with too little time to take active part in his children's lives.

She took Naerys' place at the bedside and reached for Viserys' hand, careful not to wake him up. Shivered at how hot it was. His face was very pale, except for the two bright red spots burning on his cheeks. His fever was running high and she called Aemon from the window where he stared blankly out. "We have to bathe him," she said. "Call for warm and cold water and cloth."

He hesitated, his purple eyes full of uncertainty. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Maybe the maesters…"

Alaena bit back her angry reply that doing such a small thing for his father should not bother him so much. "Yes," she said instead. "I'll wash him but I'll need you to help me change him in fresh clothes…"

She bathed Viserys's feverish body with her own hands. He was clean, of course, for he was well taken care of, by Alaena herself mostly, but it relieved him and she was ready to do it by hour if needed. She shivered: he already looked gaunter than he had been a few hours ago, his flesh melting away with his life. With Aemon's help, she changed him and tucked him under the covers. He was going to die any day now, she knew it.

"You have to go," he murmured in a brief moment of clarity. "You won't be safe here."

Alaena looked at the hand she was holding. "I'll go as soon as my husband's ship arrives," she lied and didn't look at Aemon who knew that she had contacted the Celtigar she had wed, insisting that he stay away for a while.

Viserys sank into delirium, talking to shades of his past. Alaena soothed his brow and spoke to him calmly, encouragingly, assuring him that everything was under control, that the worst was behind them now, all the while fighting her tears, reliving her own memories, and finding out things that she hadn't known about his past – their past. When he woke up, she held a goblet of clear soup to his mouth, relieved that he was better now, if only for a while.

"You should go and have some rest," he told her, his eyes wide, and clear, and pained.

"I will," she promised and the King's eyes went to his son. His expression changed to something that even Alaena could not read – and Aemon even less. "Don't you have some other duties?" Viserys snapped. "Get out of here, you look ridiculous sitting around and waiting for me to go to the Stranger… I am not on my way yet."

"Yes, my lord," Aemon said readily, his relief so blatant that Alaena wanted to shake him and scream at his face that he was a bloody coward… and a few more choice words her mariner husband had taught her. She rose to see him off.

One look at his face as they neared the door was enough to make her feel ashamed of just how wrongly she had judged him.

"I cannot believe I am seeing him like this," Aemon murmured. "I am looking at him, yet I cannot believe it's him."

Her heart ached at the raw pain in his voice. Yes, he had never been close to his father, his feelings were more those of respect and fear than love – Alaena even suspected that sometimes they had slid close to hatred – but he had never stopped worshipping Viserys as a symbol of peace and stability. His father's hands had been firm and merciless but they had always been protective, as well.

Who was going to protect them now?

She chased this thought away. She always did – and it always came back. As unusual as she was for a noblewoman, in one thing she was no different from any other ladies: she relied on her menfolk. With Aegon and Viserys, she had always felt sheltered, kept safe. Now, she'd be on her own. Oh, she trusted her husband, she did but it was another emotion. Her deepest feeling of being protected had always lain with Viserys and Aegon, they had been there since she was all but a babe in her cradle, having lost both her parents in the Dance of Dragons.

The warnings kept piling: Naerys, too loyal to criticize her husband openly, nonetheless hinted that Aegon's feelings for Alaena were not benevolent. Lord Arryn, her first husband's nephew, begged an audience and told her about the growing rumours that she was poisoning the king in mind and body, keeping him isolated and turning him against his heir. Alaena only laughed scornfully. One night, Daeron begged her to leave, telling her that whatever plans his father had for her, they could only grow more malicious as her voice was becoming increasingly the only one Viserys recognized through his deliriums that were becoming longer with each passing day.

Alaena hesitated. She suspected that none of them knew just how malicious Aegon could truly be, and she was scared – only a fool wouldn't be. But Viserys was drifting away from the present more and more, living in his past, and she was the only one who shared it. In both his wanderings and his waking state, he clung to her for love and emotional support. She could not leave him alone. She would not, as he had never let her alone.

The very next day, Aegon himself tried to make her leave his father's bedchamber, explaining to her in plain words that she was unwelcome; shaking with anger, she still managed to keep her voice low out of fear of waking Viserys up and stated that while the King still lived, no one could force her out. Aegon left fuming and Alaena was left alone with her mounting fear.

* * *

_A few days later…_

They came for her a little before dawn, mere minutes after the Stranger left the room taking Viserys with him. She rose and briefly wondered who had told. Someone among Viserys' own servants, for she had barred the door to all those court vultures who would gladly pray at every gesture, every incoherent mutter, curious and delighted to what the Stranger had reduced the great king to. Viserys would have been terrified, had he been conscious. Throughout his adult life, he had clung to propriety as something secure, something that provided order after the turmoil of his childhood and early youth; now, Alaena was determined that he'd die humanly, peacefully, instead of providing a mummer show for all those longing to see it. She climbed in bed, taking his head to her breast, rubbing his back, stroking his hair. She talked about the good things of their youth, the joys, the triumphs, and she did not know whether the words reached his mind but her voice and hands soothed him, made him sleepy and relaxed until the very moment he went numb, his body growing heavy in her arms.

Now, she turned to the door. The Kingsguard appeared, with Aemon in the lead. In the faint light, he looked as pale as his father. Aegon entered slowly, triumphantly. Behind him, his wretched companions filled the antechamber, eager to see what would follow.

Alaena looked at the dead king. _It's a good thing I had the time to close his eyes_ , she thought. With Aegon focused on the hour of his new triumph, it would be a while before someone paid attention to Viserys' corpse, and by then closing his eyes would be next to impossible.

She grinded her teeth and made a curtsey. "Your Grace," she said, proud that the words did not catch in her throat.

His cold purple eyes fixed her icily. _But he's enraged,_ she realized. _Why should he be?_

He turned to the Kingsguard, "Take her to her rooms! She isn't allowed to leave and no one is allowed to visit her. Even my gooddaughter cannot ask for more."

The first feeling washing over her was relief. Now she realized why Aegon was so furious. He had clearly intended to turn the full measure of his anger onto her but Myriah had appealed to him in front of the entire court. No doubt she had brought up her own advanced pregnancy. Aegon had been backed into a corner, unable to refuse an act of mercy his gooddaughter who was expected to bring his grandchild into the world any day now. The next moment, she felt a rush of cold fear, for Aegon would not be so easily defeated now, when he was finally the most powerful man in Westeros.

She might never leave her chambers again – and it was possible that no one would ever enter.

His next words confirmed her suspicions. "The Princess is but a mere woman with a babe to take care of. She doesn't need as much space as King Baelor's sister did. She is to stay in her rooms until more proper accommodations are made."

Alaena stifled the scream rising to her throat, summoned all her will not to tremble, not to show her fear. Now, she realized how wrong they had been. Viserys and her, they had both thought that nothing could be worse than a new civil war. But Aegon was. She drew a deep breath, looked at him, at his gloating sycophants, at the silent Kingsguard advancing on her with remorse on their faces, and a flame of fury and grief suddenly lit her eyes, making them alive, fiery.

"This one! That's who will replace Viserys… That's who we chose to rule over us… Mark my words! What Aegon and Viserys… built for thirty years… this one will lose it in thirty days. But… but him… you will tolerate. You who couldn't tolerate a woman ruling over you… this one… Aegon!... you'll suffer him until he ruins it all. That's what we did, the King and I… We thought a turmoil was worse than Aegon… What a mistake! There's nothing worse than this one."

She managed to get a hold of herself, once again turned to the bed to kiss the forehead of the dead king. At least he would not suffer Aegon's reign. "Farewell, brother," she murmured. "Wait for me."

For she knew for sure that Viserys would be the very first person she would meet next, in the afterlife. Aegon would never let her out. She could only hope that release would come soon enough for Lyselle.

She rose and gestured at Aemon that she was ready. She didn't look at him when he silently accompanied her to her chambers, already depleted of her servants. Only Lyselle's nursemaid remained, as Alaena saw as the doors were clanging shut behind her, to open again only when her new prison would be ready for her.

In the bruised light of the coming dawn, she cradled her daughter in her arms and started singing softly. Lyselle opened her eyes briefly and her head fell back on her mother's shoulder. Alaena stroked her downy head and sang her back to sleep. The words of the lullaby were broken, heavy with tears.

 


	15. Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for each and every review! Thank you, Rhiana1, for reviewing each time!

The cold feeling came so suddenly that Myriah barely contained a sharp cry. It was so biting that it turned into real pain in the matter of moments. A few of her fingers went white and clenched in small spasms that she had no control over. Waves of pains rushed through them, freezing them, turning them icy blue like the winter night descending upon them. The girl who was passing her jewels stopped and gave her a look of fear and Myriah smiled. "I am fine," she managed, making her voice sound as normal as possible because she did not want to get the Red Keep talking. Something more, Rhaegel was playing with two kittens near the window and she did not want to upset him. Her children never took it well when she was in pain.

She couldn't move her fingers, though, not until the spasm went away and she knew it would take a few minutes. She looked at the women. "Is Rhaegel warmly dressed?" she asked and his nursemaid went to check. He writhed in protest.

"Rrrhaegel is wam, Mama!" he cried and indeed, his fair face was quite flushed. A few sweaty silver-gold hairs were sticking to his forehead and Myriah realized that if anything, he was too warm. She started to give orders but the nursemaid had already taken notice and was now undressing the child. Myriah smiled through the pain, sure that she had made the right choice in hiring her.

Slowly, the pain abated and colour returned to her fingers, as well as sensitivity. There was still some pricking but not nearly as bad as before. She resumed her preparations for the evening feast, stopping from time to time to smile at her son in the mirror. Each time, Rhaegel looked back in the same moment she did, as if he knew she would, and beamed. Such a good child, Rhaegel was. Never having angry fits when they couldn't understand what he wanted. Never moping, unless he was ill. And he had been so fascinated with Aelinor – far more than Baelor and Aerys had been with him or her! In fact, each of those two still begged to have the rest of them removed!

"Me come?" Rhaegel asked now.

"When you grow up," Myriah promised. In truth, she'd rather not attend the evening feast herself. The sight of the Bracken woman flaunting jewels that should have been Naerys' and power that she had no right over, no matter how briefly it would last, was enough to make her gag. But her goodmother was ill again and there was no way Myriah would let the King's mistress play queen. The court was already drowning in debauchery and she couldn't wait for the construction of the new castle to be finished. Meanwhile, she and Daeron would not withdraw and let Aegon and his sycophants think they had cowered them into hiding, no matter how much they sometimes want to stay in the stillness of their own chambers, punctuated by their children's shouts.

"You look lovely, my lady," the handmaiden said admiringly. She was a very young girl, barely starting to turn into a woman, not of Dorne and not someone Aegon had forced on her – something that was getting increasingly rare nowadays. Staring at the looking glass, Myriah had to agree. She had started to think she'd never regain her figure or smooth skin but she had clearly underestimated her youth's ability to deal with all the pressure she had exerted on her body. Just a little over a year without being with child, she was starting to look like someone she didn't know but she thought she might like – not the girl who had married Daeron but the woman she could be one day. It felt weird to think that she was a mother of four already. She was still nineteen, there were two weeks until her twentieth nameday.

One of the kittens mewled in pain and Myriah watched as Lelia hurried to show Rhaegel how he should stroke them without hurting them. "Kittens like to be petted, not pulled at," the old woman explained.

"They not kittens," he argued. "They dagons."

Now fully attired, Myriah turned to her son. "Are they?" she inquired, inclined her head and smiled at him with just a hint of doubt. That was a game she still played with Baelor and Aerys. She had no doubt that she'd play it with little Aelinor, too, as soon as her daughter started making some semblance of sentences. At one point or another, all of her children had turned animals into something else, dragons most often. Her smile grew wider as she expected this adorable expression to appear, the mix of militant defense of his "dragons" and the slight shame because he had to admit to himself that they were no dragons at all. That was what Baelor and Aerys had always done.

Rhaegel didn't.

"They arrrre," he assured her, looking straight at her, his smile so innocent and trusting. And then she realized that he believed it.

"Mama!" Rhaegel shrieked when she crossed the room and dropped to her knees in front of him, squeezing him tight. "Mama, hut!"

She realized that she was causing him pain but there was a long moment before she could force herself to let go.

He stroked her face, his own so concerned that she could barely keep the tears away. "Mama?"

"It's… it's nothing," she managed. Her heart was beating fast, everything that she had heard about the Targaryen instability rushing to her mind. Up to this moment, she had never thought of it. Not since the moment she met Daeron who was so smart, so devoted to her and so _sane_. She hadn't even _known_ she knew so much about their madness. "Mama is fine," she assured her son and tried to get herself under control, telling herself that she was just being stupid. All children made tales up.

But that was her third child and her older ones had given clues, however slight, that they knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Fear rushed through her, paralyzing her worse than the spasms from cold before.

All of a sudden, Rhaegel shot past her, to his father who had just entered. Looking at her husband who grabbed Rhaegel and threw him high in the air, Myriah realized that a new feeling had come upon her. She wanted to… rush to them and pull Rhaegel out of his father's arms, keep him safely away. It was the first time she didn't look at Daeron with love. Now, she saw him as a danger to her – not _their_ – children.

* * *

_Three weeks later…_

"Where have you been?"

Myriah stopped to collect her breath. She was so tired, she only wanted to have some rest but with her goodfather there, it would have to wait. Conversations with Aegon were something she'd rather avoid and his coming to her chambers was so unusual that her sense of danger rang louder than the bells of the Great Sept at the two kings' deaths. But her pride would not let her plead indispose or another excuse, so she gathered herself together and executed a perfect curtsey. "I was engaged in the city, Your Grace," she said and wondered whether he intended to keep her in this uncomfortable pose for the entire length of their conversation.

The King snorted. "Yes, I was made aware of the nature of your "engagements", he said. "You and my son will reduce us to beggary indulging your whims."

 _Ah, so that's it_. Now, the question was only whether he had heard about her newest project for providing the poorest of mothers in the main cities with occupation that would let them put some food on the table, or Daeron's idea of ordering a new book of grammar. While Daeron, Myriah, and the circle they had gathered around themselves believed that a state that was truly great, a state that was to persist for centuries, should be built upon the foundation of an educated society, Aegon was mainly concerned with consolidating the royal power and depriving the great Houses of their influence to the best of his ability. Each dragon spent for education or charity was a dragon less for his war chest.

"Organizing education for deaf children," he went on, so now Myriah knew what he was talking about. "Waste of money, that's what it is. There's no use of them."

"Clearly, I think otherwise, Your Grace," she replied as coolly as she could, still half the way to the floor. Now, the lessons she had so hated when she had been a child were paying off: Aegon might think that his knights were the most endurable people ever but he hadn't been the one who had been made to go round the hall with a heavy tome on his head and a water bowl filled to the edge in his arms hundreds of times… Myriah was remarkably resilient physically, as long as she wasn't with child.

He snorted once again. "You think too much," he declared. "Oh, do rise already," he snapped, realizing that she wouldn't fall down any time soon.

Myriah did so and took a seat. He might be the king but she had been just bidden to rise and despite, she was in her home.

Aegon gave her a long examining look. "You look well," he said, sounding surprised. "With time, you might even become lovely. Who would have thought…"

"You outshine me by far, Your Grace," Myriah said smoothly, taking in the many rings on his fingers, the pearls on his double, the heavy golden chain on his neck. In the midafternoon, he was bedecked with more jewels than she wore for formal occasions!

Aegon's eyes narrowed. "I think it's time we talk about your household arrangements," he announced.

Myriah's body tensed. Since the terrible _misunderstanding_ with her Dornish retinue years ago, he had never tried to meddle again. But she had expected some kind of strike. In everyone's eyes, she was Dorne in King's Landing and while Baelor and Viserys had welcomed her as the pledge of peace between her land and theirs, Aegon saw her as the embodiment of the only land the dragons had yet to conquer and hold.

"I think you need a new lady in-waiting," the King said.

Fury suffocated her even as she replied – very politely – that all her needs were being currently met.

"With Lady Barbra as chief among your ladies, you'll feel even better," he assured her.

Myriah smiled thinly. "I's think it isn't my comfort Your Grace is concerned about."

Aegon waved a dismissive hand. "Doesn't matter. So, the matter is solved?"

"Yes," Myriah said. "I don't need another handmaiden."

What did he think, that she'd let him humiliate her so? Force her take his mistress in her household? What about the time he lost interest in Barbra Bracken? Should Myriah dismiss her from service to make room for his new bedwarmer? Of course, by the time he might have grown so complacent and arrogant that he'd try to place the new girl directly in his lady wife's household… If Barbra Bracken was insolent enough to seek service with Myriah, what could stop her successor from wanting the same or aiming higher? Was Myriah supposed to turn her home into a meeting place for her goodfather's mistresses?

Aegon turned purple. After his earlier clash with Daeron, now this Dornish girl dared defy him!

"You're presuming too much," he snarled and actually made to rise, as if he intended to strike her. Only the quickness of her reflexes stopped her from drawing back instinctively. "You are the one who will serve her if I so choose."

Myriah's senses were all alert, preventing her from showing reaction. She even smiled. "As you wish," she said. "That will not replace her blood, though, or mine. You can arrange a comfortable life in the future but you cannot replace her past with another one!"

Their eyes met in a silent battle of wills that no one came up the winner.

* * *

_A month later…_

"Will you tell me what's going on, finally?"

"It's nothing."

"Oh please!"

Daeron ran a hand through his hair and gave her a look of irritation. "You've been acting distant for weeks. You're always on the edge. For gods' sake, you don't even want me in this bed any more…"

"I never said it."

"Some things are evident even without herald," he said. "What did I do to turn you against me?"

Myriah curled on her other side, in the bed they had made love last night. She couldn't give him any answer. She didn't want to get him worried. She still hoped that she was wrong. Rhaegel was so young that it was hard to say for sure. Yet each passing day brought her a new confirmation that her third was not like the other children. Not her other, at least. Sometimes, he lived in a world of his own and while children did that, with Rhaegel it was impossible to draw him out until he came back on his own. And there were still those lapses that made her sure that he couldn't draw the line between fantasy and reality. He was such a sweet child, yet harsh voice did not work on him when he was in one of what she secretly referred to as his _spells_.

It was not Daeron's fault, of course. Rationally, she knew that, yet the blaming ran deeply within her, overpowering her more just thoughts, smearing her love for him with its shameful stain. As much as she tried to hide it, he could feel it. And he was right, their marital bed, a place that had always brought her pleasure, was now a place of duty and fear. She feared that the moon tea she had started drinking in secret might not help, that she might bring another child into the world and it might suffer from the malady Rhaegel was suffering…

"You didn't do anything," she whispered. "I… I just need time."

"Time for what, for the Mother's sake? What's going on?"

A child's crying came from the adjacent room; relieved that she now had a reason to postpone this painful conversation, Myriah rose and muttered that she'd be back as soon as she was done.

Aelinor stopped crying the moment she saw her; the nursemaid was just rising to take her but when she saw the Princess, she sank back in her chair.

Myriah took her youngest in her arms and blew in her face, making her giggle. Aelinor was so nice and soft, all silver hair and indigo eyes that sometimes turned black. _Are you going to suffer the madness top, my child_ , Myriah wondered silently, searching her face for a thousandth time, as if she could detect the madness if it ran under this perfect pale skin.

Aelinor was the first child she had nursed more than a few months – she had always found herself with child around this time before. Now, she enjoyed holding her youngest, staring at the perfect half-oval of her cheek and feeling the warmth of her. That was one of the very few times her thoughts drifted away from her compulsive worry; smiling, she sat down and opened her nightgown.

Her cheeks still wet, Aelinor immediately went straight for the breast… and Myriah grabbed her and pulled her back.

Her little girl's eyes met hers, wide and confused. Myriah slumped against the back of the couch, realizing just what had happened. She had felt such a revulsion towards a child of hers suckling before… three times, exactly, this desire to grab the child, throw him on the floor and run away.

She already knew that she had conceived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's Sunday already. Happy Easter to everyone!


	16. In the Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a review, they are a great motivation to keep up. Thank you, Riana1 and Baelorfan, for your constant interest in the story - and letting me know you're interested.

The winter was showing no intention to end – and the maesters were showing no knowledge to predict its end anyway. Naturally! Famine, plague, and whatnot reigned in vast areas more certainly than Aegon did. The stocks of gathered crops were breathing their last, the taxes could not be exacted fully, and the Master of Coin had just declared that their little trick with saving some gold from the weight of the dragons they coined had started to be discovered in numerous areas. And everyone was eager to drop all of this in Aegon's lap. What did they expect him to? Have a conversation with the Seven and convince them to stop the winter? Wasn't that what the High Septon was for _? They would have expected it from Cousin Baelor. The befuddled wretch just had to make it harder for all his successors. He had to._

Was he supposed to take the mattock and start sowing wheat under the iced land in person? Those fools in the Small Council seemed to think that he was.

In his bedchamber, Mylessa was curled up in his bed under a huge blanket with a book in her hands. She was so engrossed in it that she actually missed his arrival. Aegon stared at her, at the black hair streaming on the pullow, and the childlike body that made almost no lump amidst the covers, and once again asked himself why he kept her near. He didn't even like her all that much. Annoying Barba aside, the truth was that Missy had no teats to speak of. No spectacular curves either. She was simply not the kind of woman that normally attracted him. And she read so much that had he not taken her to his bed, she would have certainly found her way to Daeron and Myriah's circle. They should have come across each other about a dozen times in the library already.

No. She was still not noticing him. What was so interesting about this book anyway? More interesting than the King? One of her hands slid from under the blanket and started stroking the white cat sleeping next to her. The wind rattled the shuttered windows and the beewax candles flickered.

The cat opened her eyes and froze in the bed, her ears flattening. Missy, clearly accustomed to take her cues from her pet, looked up and rose – not too fast, as most of his former mistresses had. She accepted his arrival as the most normal thing in Westeros. Really, where was he supposed to go if not his own bedchamber?

The cat sprang over the bed, catching on the velvet binding of the book, and hid underneath. Missy laughed as she made her curtsy. "You've been busy, I see," Aegon said, pointing with his eyes at the book.

"It made a good company," she said. Had it been Barba, she would have assured him that it had been only a poor substitute for him. Missy, though, only gave him a look that he tried to decipher in vain. Maybe this mysteriousness of her, that demeanor that revealed just a brief glint of her true feelings was what made him keep her? He had never met such an interesting bauble before – not beautiful but captivating anyway.

"I was thinking that you might need a new Master of Hunt," she said lazily, making herself comfortably in bed, the book now on the coffer at her bedside.

Aegon laughed, wondering which one of her many relatives she'd offer up for the post. His scrawny, childlike mistress was no child where the interests of her family were concerned! He only expected the moment she'd want the position of a Hand for her father! He might even indulge her.

Hmm, maybe one of the reasons he still kept her in his chambers was the sheer absurdity of it all. Really, it was so damned funny for a king not to like his mistress too much, yet try so hard to prove the opposite to her. It was a new feeling, for sure!

A soft knocking at the door made them both look this way. "Make yourself ready," he said. "I am coming."

He intended to send the unwelcome visitor away, no matter who they were. What he was about to do here was much more important. But when he saw the Vale girl he gave rich money to keep him informed of what transpired in his gooddaughter's chambers, he gave her a look of surprise. She had never come so openly, not to his private chambers, not in the daylight. "What happened?" he asked as she was making her curtsy.

The big blue eyes not quite meeting his were stormy, concerned. "The Princess is with child," the girl said breathlessly.

"What, once again! What in the seven hells are those two doing, providing the numbers for a Dornish invasion?"

"Yes. No. Your Grace, the Princess is about to procure a miscarriage," the girl blurted. "Secretly. That old midwife is there with her herbs…"

Angrily, Aegon waved her off, stalked out of his chamber and stormed down the hall, leaving his naked mistress alone in bed. What was the Dornishwoman thinking? That she could dispose of a _Targaryen_ child whenever she wanted to? Not if Aegon could say something about it – and he could. Baelor's stupid treaty and Daeron's disgusting infatuation aside, Myriah Martell did not rule in the Red Keep. Aegon did.

His quick steps soon brought him to his son's chambers. Despite the biting wind and the recently started rain, the shutters were open and the pale light poured into the solar. Daeron was talking to two other men. Aegon knew Rogar Redtree but the older one was a complete stranger. It didn't matter. He halted right before Daeron.

"Do you know what this wife of yours is doing right now?" he asked.

Daeron shrugged. "I am sure you'll tell me," he said.

"She's killing your unborn child right in this moment," Aegon enlightened him.

The calm mask fell off the young man's face. He stared at his father in complete and utter shock. "She isn't even with… No. Myriah wouldn't."

And then some other consideration crossed his face, leaving horror in its wake. Wordlessly, he headed for the door and then his wife's chambers. Aegon followed, leaving the other two men to talk about this stunning new development.

Daeron's white face and tight mouth showed him that there was a storm to come. Aegon wouldn't want to miss it.

Myriah was in her bedchamber. The shutters were shut and the wind hissed through the cracks. The air reeked of dozens of herbs and various concoctions. Oh, and the pungent odour of tallow candles. The old witch near the bed probably felt discomfited by beewax. Aegon wondered how the two women braved the nasty scents without fainting.

When Daeron threw the door open, Myriah was staring at the steaming goblet at the coffer near the bed. The horrified gasp escaping her lips at their arrival and the way the old woman cowered in the nearest shadow told them everything they needed to know.

"So, it's true." Daeron's voice was hollow, his disbelieving eyes fixed on his blanched, faithless wife. "I didn't want to believe it. But you were really going to do it!"

The old woman's gasp drew their attention to her. Daeron made a step towards her and she cowered further, as if she was afraid that he'd hit her. Looking at him, Aegon thought that he might.

Daeron spun back, grabbed the vile potion in its goblet that looked so hot that his hand might have stuck to it, and splashed its contents into the huge fireplace they had built for Myriah prior to her arrival. "Get out," he spat, looking at the woman. "Get out before I obliterate whichever hovel you're conducting your wretched business in!"

She didn't need to be told twice: she scuttled away immediately, no doubt thanking the Seven, for a woman in that business ought to know that she had gotten off cheaply, given the gravity of her offense. Helping the Princess of Dragonstone miscarry was treason and while she might not know the specifics of the term in this regard, she was well aware of the punishment.

Myriah had drawn her knees to her chest. Her hair fell like a curtain in front of her face and by the little that could be spotted behind it, she looked for all the world as a poor wet kitten. All of a sudden, Aegon felt something that he had never thought he'd be able to feel for his stubborn gooddaughter: a surge of pity, mixed with faint disgust. A forlorn little thing that right now, had no claws, that was what she was. Silently, he turned back and left, the prospect of witnessing Daeron teaching her her place not as appealing as it had been only a few moments ago.

Neither Daeron nor Myriah turned their heads toward the sound of the closing door. He was looking at her and she refused to look at him, hiding behind her hair instead.

"Why?" he finally asked and there was hurt in her voice that made her want to scream with both rage and pity. She didn't want to kill their babe – she just didn't want it to suffer like Rhaegel. She didn't want _him_ to suffer, either. If only Aegon's spies hadn't gleaned her secret!

"I had to."

He gave her a long look but didn't made a step for the bed, as if he had vowed that he'd keep a certain distance. In truth, he did not dare go to her. He was afraid that should he touch her, he'll strangle her upon the spot!

"Why, in the Mother's name? Speak plainly!"

She uncurled herself. Gritted her teeth. Closed her eyes, braving herself for what would follow. "I believe Rhaegel is inflicted with the Targaryen curse," she said hollowly. It was the first time she acknowledged it, the first time she let the words out, and they echoed through her, numbing her from head to toes. It was the truth. Her beautiful, gentle son was mad. And soon, everyone would know it.

She saw Daeron flinching as the words hit him, saw the moment understanding started sinking in. He stumbled forward, his hand instinctively shot for the bedpost and he managed to stay upright.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes enormous in the white blur of his face.

"Yes," she said, in the same hollow voice. And then, she felt the urge to explain, to make him understand, make him see that she was doing it _for_ the babe, not _to_ it. "I tried to prevent conception. I drank the moon tea. Something went wrong, though, and I don't know whether the babe would be… normal anyway. Very few women can conceive while they…"

A muscle twitched in his cheek. His hand was still clutching the bedpost. "And you decided to kill it, just in case? Without bothering to tell me?"

Anger burst through her then, sweeping the numbness away. How dared he look like he was the wronged one! How dared he blame her when he…

Myriah drew a shaking hand down her face. What was she _doing_? She was behaving as if he had been actively _aiming_ for such a result. Daeron couldn't have prevented it even if he tried. It was in his blood, not his will.

"I'll tell you how it's going to play from now on," he said through grinded teeth. His pale face started turning purple with the effort of keeping his anger in check. "You won't try anything else to get rid of it. In fact, you'll keep this pregnancy and take care of this babe more than you ever did for any of the older ones. Because if something happens, I'll remove the children from your care. I'll give them to my mother to raise, instead."

"You cannot!" she cried and shot to her feet.

He gave her another long look of those impossibly widened eyes and Myriah froze, feeling a jolt of fear like no other. She had known that her life was subject to his power but this was different, this chilling realization that he could do whatever he wanted with her life and her children's lives and she could not hope to stop him more than Alaena had been able to stop his father.

"Fortunately, I won't have to, will I?" her husband asked coldly. "Why are you standing, love? Go to bed. You have a babe to keep safe."

He was turning into a stranger. Someone she didn't know, resembling someone she knew. For the first time, she realized in full measure that Daeron _was_ Aegon's son, having inherited some of his most unflattering traits, the ability to throw cruel barbs among them. He had simply chosen not to let them free. Despite everything, Myriah felt an underlying sense of sadness. She had never seen him so enraged… or so hurt. As much as she wanted to hit him and made him see reality, another part of her wanted to hold him and whisper in his ear that it had been all a cruel joke, that he could go to sleep without this new burden, that none of it was true.

"I am sorry," she said, softly. "I haven't been myself since I realized the truth about Rhaegel."

"And when was that?" he asked, his eyes now burning and bloodshot. "No, don't give me an answer. You've known about it for two months, right?"

His precise surmise made her gape. "How do you know?"

He snorted. "And you're still asking! That was the time you first turned against me. I understand now… You deemed me guilty and started punishing me."

"I did no such thing!" Myriah yelled, trying to drown him and the tiny voice in her head mockingly informing her that yes, she had.

He made a step towards her, actually reached for her hand and then dropped it sharply. "No?" he jeered. "Rhaegel is what he is because of my blood, not yours. Don't tell me that you didn't enjoy tormenting me a little? Watching me squirm, not knowing what I owed my new suffering to?"

"Sometimes, I did! I think you deserve it!"

The tallow candles spluttered and that was the only sound in the bedchamber for a very long time. The two young people stared at each other, both deathly pale, horrified at what had just taken place. And then Daeron laughed. "Well, now it's all clear," he said. "Goodbye, love."

He strode out, not giving her another look as she sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands. Silent sobs shook her but they were dry, for her throat was too constricted to let a sound through. "Daeron, I didn't want this to happen," she mouthed over and over. "I love you, I truly do. I don't know what made me say all those things."

By the time she finally got to her feet, the candles had already burned low. She dragged herself to the bed and sank upon it, another horror filling her. Now, she had to carry this child to term – the babe she had conceived despite her desperate attempts not to, despite her fear of madness, despite the potent moon tea. Would the babe be healthy? _Could_ it be healthy? With an increasingly heavy heart, Myriah felt that it could not be happy. Not a child whose mother had carried it cold with terror.

 


	17. Summerhall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Special thanks to Riana1 and Baelorfan for following as constantly as they have.

The castle emerged in front of her like a glimmering vision of slender towers and pale stone. With the sun dancing off the roofs, it looked like something come out of the leather-bound books with fairy tales that she had loved listening to as a child. Hope. Beauty created out of nothing. A place she could call her own, the way her chambers in the Red Keep weren't. _We could be happy here_ , she thought before remembering that there was no longer _them_ , not the way they had used to be. Daeron was as attentive as ever, catering to all her whims and suffering her moodiness and bursts of anger without complaint but she felt the difference sharply. This time, he was doing it for the babe, not Myriah herself, and it hurt. He hadn't forgiven her and she was starting to think that he never would. But then, she hadn't forgiven him either…

"My lady," the maester said, warning in his tone. The midwife started nodding emphatically. Myriah sighed and slammed the shutters of the windows of the wheelhouse closed. The man was right, as fascinated as she was with the sight, the cold wind could render her sick in no time at all and she would not allow it. Not while there was still a month and more till the babe's arrival.

"Take it at an easy pace," Lelia spoke. She had much more to say but lately, even she had started threading carefully. Although this pregnancy progressed as easily as any of the previous ones, Myriah was angry, and heart-sick, and scared. Lelia was afraid that the tension she lived in and her growing estrangement from the Prince might bring her birth pangs on. To prevent this from happening, she would make all she possibly could to keep Myriah calm and comfortable. Of course, the risk was that the girl might like getting her own way with her old nursemaid and try to keep it like this even after the birth. _Well, it isn't as if I hadn't dealt with it before_ , Lelia thought. As irrational as she could be, a mature Myriah was easier to get along with than the child she had been.

After this, no one spoke for a while, both because conversation with Myriah had become like venturing into the marches and because no one wanted to wake up the all too energetic child sleeping in his corner of the bench. Prince Baelor. Lelia was all for raising men, not feeble ladies born with the wrong sex but she considered the boy and his little sister's presence a mistake. The journey was quite long and it was _snowy_ winter. Like a sandy Dornishwoman, Lelia did not trust snow. But Myriah and Daeron had decided to indulge Baelor's whim and take him along – probably because his presence made their interactions less fraught. And since it would be Aelinor's second nameday soon, they had decided to take her, too, for Myriah feared that after the birth, Aelinor would feel unhappy and abandoned, more so than her brothers had, for she would be older than they had been. Now, the girl snuggled against her mother and muttered something without waking up.

Suddenly, the wheelhouse lurched forward and stopped. Baelor opened his eyes and asked, "Are we there?"

That was the question everyone would like to get an answer to! The travel with Myriah who should have been in confinement, instead of roaming the realm in the snow, and a very lively child who had not realized just how much time he'd have to spend in the wheelhouse was quickly exhausting Lelia's supply of patience that was never this great to start with. She could hardly wait for the babe to come, so she could set things in order.

Outside, someone shouted a command to open the gates. Great clanking showed that it was being done and the noise cut through Myriah's head in a throbbing headache. Not for the first time in the past week, she wondered whether this pregnancy had unsettled not only her body but her mind. She should have been sitting in a dark room, preparing mentally for the birth, making herself as comfortable as possible, not rocking hither and thither in this monstrosity of a wheelhouse. But she knew that should she go into confinement, she'd truly lose her mind. The closer the birth drew, the more scared she became. Thoughts that the babe would be deformed and monstrous and she'd never know whether it was due to the moon tea or her own fears visited her hourly. Visions of a child who would be mad and profoundly unhappy danced before her eyes each time she closed them. So she had sought something to distract her. The desire to see the castle that would be their home and had been finally finished and waiting for them had become a burning necessity that even the King recognized, so he was quick to let them go, with the only demand that they returned before the birth. Myriah had promised most sincerely.

She snuggled against the cushions and waited for the wheelhouse to start rolling and then stop once again. A moment later, Daeron opened the door and leaned in. "Myriah? Are you well?"

"Yes," she said, held out a hand and let him help her out of the wheelhouse, careful not to disturb Aelinor. Her breath caught as she took in the four tall slender towers, the loping roofs, the many windows now hidden behind close shutters but in spring and summer would let a waterfall of glorious sunlight in. Through the open door in front of her she saw the merry dance of a red welcoming fire. Tears welled out of her eyes as she imagined the castle as it could be – a place of love and laughter, a dwelling of learned men and shrewd politicians, a scene of amusements that had nothing to do with Aegon's debauchery entertainment. Home.

"Summerhall," she whispered and almost reached out for Daeron's hand before remembering that Daeron no longer wanted her and her own resentment at him would come back pretty soon, as ever.

Behind her, Baelor shot out of the wheelhouse and was about to run off somewhere when she, with her long practice, caught him by the hand. "Stay here," she said. "Soon enough, you'll be free to run around. But now, stay with me."

"But I want to…"

His voice was too loud, querulous, and petulant for her liking. In truth, she could not fault him for being irritable. She had miscalculated just how slow they would need to travel, with her pregnancy so close to its end, so Baelor had spent in the wheelhouse more days than planned. But she was firm that he should learn to control himself and get to know that _no_ did not mean _yes if only you scream louder_.

"Later," she said. "Now, let's go in. Stay close to me."

To her irritation, Baelor looked up at his father. Of course! She tried to raise the children to have manners, and he undermined everything by spoiling them rotten. Well, not quite but often enough for him to look like the good one in their pair. There was sound reasoning in Baelor hoping to get from his father what his mother forbade. If now, in this moment, he had to choose between the two of them, the outcome would be all in his wonderful father's favour.

Daeron shook his head. Even he saw that letting Baelor run wild in a completely new place was a very bad idea – and the boy could probably outrun each member of their retinue.

Their son's lips pursed. Myriah braced herself for a new outburst of _Let me go!_ Instead, he tugged free but far from running away, he turned to her. "Don't come out!" he yelled, pointing at her belly quite expressively. "Our mother is very bad! Your life will be terrible!"

Daeron burst out laughing. Myriah glared at him and then Baelor before giving up and doing the same. Her son looked so ridiculous, standing there pointing at her belly with the might of all his conviction.

Her laughter stopped all of a sudden when she felt the splash over her feet and the dark wet stain spreading across her cloak and the skirts beneath. Desperately, she tried to feel some pain and found none. Just these waters that had broken too soon.

* * *

_Four days later…_

Dread had sneaked stealthily into the newly built castle, permeating everything and making everyone, from the sentries at the gate to Aelinor's nursemaid in the private chambers look in dark anticipation at the sole window on the ground floor that never went dark – the light behind the crack in the shutters never disappeared. By now, everyone knew that this was not going as it should. Myriah's labour had started two days after the early breaking of her waters; two more days later, there was so little progress that one could think the child unwilling to be born.

"Why hasn't the mouth of her womb opened by now?" Daeron asked quietly Lelia whom he had dragged into a corner when she had gone out to order more hot water. "She has always delivered our children more easily than this. Even Baelor only took a day."

Myriah's nursemaid looked aged in years. Her face was smooth but Daeron thought she wore her lack of expression like a mask that once slipped could not be regained and would let her anxiety and fear show mercilessly. She looked smaller, hunched, her skin mere paper. She gave Daeron a helpless look. "When a woman gives birth again and again in too short a period, her womb can become too weak. I don't know why and neither do maesters. This is Myriah's fifth time in the birthing chamber in six years."

_They'd better learn_ , Daeron thought angrily. Couldn't they take break from perusing old documents and focus on something useful, just for a change? Something like learning how to bring life on without losing a life in the process. But his flash of anger disappeared as fast as it had appeared. "I know that the pains should begin a few hours after the breaking of the waters. With Myriah, it was two days. What does that mean?"

Lelia hesitated. Myriah's scream made both of them look at the birthing chamber's door. "I am not sure, Your Grace. I've seen it and the midwife has, too. She isn't sure either. It usually means that the labour would be harder."

Daeron expected this much. "If she cannot bring the child out, what will the three of you do?"

Lelia shivered, as if by speaking the words he had invoked the Stranger. "There are herbs we can give her… to expel a dead child," she added defiantly, looking him into the eye.

Daeron, though, was not a septon who thought that when forced to make choice, they had to sacrifice the mother to spare the child. In fact, he was quite grateful that Myriah was being attended by people who would act first to save her. "It will not come to this," he said instead.

"It will not come to this," she repeated and hurried back inside.

* * *

He was born soon after midnight, small and blue, with one eye swollen-shut by the long ineffective contractions and the bad angle for pushing that he had come under. Myriah studied him for a very long time, utterly surprised. She could not fathom how a babe carried with such torment could look like any other. Like most of her others. For even bruised as he was, it was clear whom he would resemble. It was as if after Baelor, none of the children she had given birth to was hers – they were Targaryens and Targaryens alone. But it made a bizarre sense for this one to take after Daeron – had it not been for him, the infant would have never been born. She would have taken the herbs that would have killed him in the womb. Now, Myriah watched the women bathing and swaddling her new son and wondered why she had ever thought ending the pregnancy was a better outcome. Sure, she would spend the next few years in anxious studying whether moon tea had affected him and whether he had had the inherited the Targaryen madness – but now that she had seen him, she could no longer imagine death being a better outcome for him even if he had the misfortune of having both.

Smiling, the midwife came to the bed. "Do you want to hold him, Your Grace?"

Myriah reached out, eagerly. But the newborn had other ideas: as soon as he was placed in her arms, he started crying, his bruised face turning red with the effort. Myriah opened the clean nightgown they had dressed her in and tried to get him to suckle. But his wailing just increased in volume. Tears cascaded down the cheek under the open eye. Myriah rocked him, with the only effect of his mewling turning into a high-pitched scream.

_He knows,_ she thought, panicked. _He knows what I tried to do. I didn't want him then – and now, he doesn't want me._

It was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. A babe of not yet an hour could not know anything. And he could certainly not reject his own mother. Yet this gnawing thought would not leave her alone. Her misgivings only grew when, immediately at being parted from her, her son calmed down; with something akin to horror, she saw how one of the young serving maids had no trouble at all in getting him to suckle.

"He's small, for he was early, but he's perfect," the maester said. "He's going to live."

_Not because of his mother_ , Myriah thought.

A little later, the man offered Daeron the same reassurances. Myriah could see that they were more than mere words and so could Daeron. The child was clearly very vigorous, moving his head and fingers in his sleep, his mouth also stirring. For a while, they could pretend that nothing of the events of the last year had happened, that they were just parents who were enjoying their new son. Neither he nor she were willing to break the illusion.

In the morning, Daeron brought Aelinor into the bedchamber; when she tottered over to climb into her mother's bed, Daeron and Myriah looked at each other with the same horrified expression: it was Aelinor's nameday today. And they had completely forgotten about it. There would be no celebrations, not even a present, for the time they had relied on to make preparations had been spent in worries and concerns around the birth.

Aelinor snuggled against her mother, nice and warm, and still sleepy. Myriah held her and her eyes filled up at remembering that the newborn still started to fuss as soon as he felt her near. Her recent attempt to get him to suckle had been another failure, although he accepted the serving maid. Myriah could already tell that he'd suckle from any woman who had milk to offer – any woman but her.

"My precious one," she murmured, stroking Aelinor's hair. "Do you know what day is it today?"

The little girl shook her head, her eyes curious.

"It's your nameday today," her mother explained. "You are turning two."

"Turning two," Aelinor repeated, not quite understanding the meaning.

"That means, " Daeron explained, "that you are now a big girl."

Her violet eyes lit up. This, she understood. "Big!" she agreed enthusiastically. Baelor was big. It was good to be big.

"And that means," her father went on, suddenly inspired, "that you'll get a very special present."

Myriah looked at him suspiciously. Even the maester could not conjure a present out of thin air.

Daeron leaned over and took her in his arms to carry her to the crib. "This is your new brother," he said. "His name is Maekar and he is your present. He was born on your nameday, so he's yours," he finished.

Hers. Aelinor did understand that, for her brothers _never_ gave her the toys she wanted. _It is mine,_ they said. "Mine," she murmured, reaching out to check on her new acquisition. Daeron caught her hand just before she could prod the newborn into the open eye.

"No, darling, not like this. You'll hurt him and he'll cry. Now, let me show you how to do it. Right?"

He guided her hand to stroke the newborn's cheek. Myriah stared at them and her heart broke again when she saw that her son accepted Aelinor's caress eagerly, too. Myriah was the only one he pushed away.

 


	18. In the Years Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed.

"Cloud of puppies. And they start rain down…"

Myriah stopped at the door, smiling, and listened to her youngest describing his fantasy to Ilena Redtree. It never stopped to amaze her how each of her children looked quicker to start walking and talking than the older ones. Lelia claimed it was because younger children copied their elder siblings and it sounded about right to Myriah. Unfortunately, they copied each other in other, not so likeable ways too… Aelinor had adopted the art of hearing only what she wanted to before she could walk while Baelor had needed about three years. Maekar was worse: he seemed to have been born with it just like he had been born with silver hair and violet eyes.

In the great hall, Baelor and Rhaegel were playing tag and unless she went there, they wouldn't stop shouting and running up and down the stairs. Daeron was not in the castle and even if he was, he'd just smile. He indulged the children in all things, leaving Myriah to be the villain. She wondered where Aelinor was. Most likely, making figures of mud. It had been raining for days and her daughter loved rain and was attracted to storms. Whenever there were lightnings, they had to bodily restrain her from going out to watch.

"Do they bark?" Ilena asked, her purple eyes shining with amusement and affection. Ever since she was sure that in six moons she'd give Rogar an heir, she'd been even more attached to Myriah's children.

The little boy frowned, trying to remember. "No," he said. "They sing."

Myriah's amusement swiftly turned into worry when her son proceeded to describe in worrying details what the puppies had been singing and how colourful they had been. She entered the room.

"That's a nice story," she said. "You have a vivid imagination. Now, why don't we go to see some real puppies, unlike the ones you invent."

Maekar frowned once again. "They are real," he argued.

"No," Myriah corrected. "They aren't."

She was trying to sound as calm and reasonable as she knew how, yet the terrible days when she had realized that Rhaegel couldn't tell fantasy from reality still haunted her. She had to hear Maekar say that he could make the difference, see that he wouldn't be lost in the world Rhaegel withdrew to ever so often…

The sunlight fell brightly in the immaculately clean chamber. There was nothing out of order around Maekar. Even his toys were placed in the bizarre places he had allotted them, except for the ones he was playing with at the moment. It made such a nice change to be able to enter a child's room without looking down and around for anything that might trip her or fall over her head – something that happened regularly with Baelor and Aelinor. _Such a good child_ , she thought with regret. _He never gives me any trouble. Sometimes, I think I am the mad one here…_

There was a defiant flash in her son's eyes. "They are real!" he cried out. "They are! Lady Ilena, aren't they real?"

Myriah's fear returned at the power of his conviction. Ilena swallowed uncomfortably, her eyes shifting between Maekar and Myriah. The boy stepped closer to her, as if he wanted her support against his mother. With a pang in her heart, Myriah realized just how alike they looked, her son and her friend, both fair-haired, fair-complexioned and purple-eyed. _They resemble mother and son_ , she thought resentfully and felt a burning desire to grab Ilena by the hand and throw her out of the chamber. Maekar never looked at her with such trust.

"Stop talking nonsense," she said angrily.

"Why?"

_Because I won't let you go the way Rhaegel is going; because you're so delightfully equable and I'll make sure you'll stay this way; because I say so._

"Puppies don't sing," she said instead. "And they most certainly don't come out in blue and orange."

Maekar considered this; Ilena shook her head, tired and disapproving.

"They do," he claimed. "These ones do."

"Stop behaving like a three year old!" Myriah exclaimed angrily before remembering that he was exactly that.

* * *

"You have a beautiful home, my lord," Myriah complimented. "And your lands are joy to the eye."

"Quite different from what you're used to, for sure," Lord Romuald Tyrell huffed. Future queen or not, he would not engage in exchanging niceties with her. She was all but a girl and he thought that his age entitled him to say what he meant.

Behind him, his heir Ser Garlon shrugged helplessly, apologetically. While he was part of Daeron and Myriah's inner circle and enjoyed a perfectly cordial relationship with them, his father was steeped deeply into his dislike of Dorne, the Prince's Dornish match, Prince Baelor's Dornish hair and everything Dornis, except for Dornish wines. Ser Garlon had scrambled for any excuse to dissuade Daeron and Myriah from their idea to visit Highgarden on their way to the asylum they had founded but it had proven impossible, unless he resorted to barring the gates.

Now, Daeron gave him a slight, almost imperceptible nod and his eyes shone in amusement. Saying anything derogatory about Myriah's homeland was a fast way to disaster. She would not take a long term offense – she couldn't afford to – but she would vanquish the old man here and now with a few chosen words.

"No," his lady wife agreed. "Not what I am used to. Our lands are not so fertile, I'm afraid, so we have to resort to our brains instead." She smiled sweetly at Lord Tyrell. "But you are what I am used to, my lord. You speak like a true Dornishman."

He choked on his wine and his face went red. Daeron thumped him repeatedly on the back until he recovered, his eyes still on the small woman who had insulted him so. _A Dornish snake_ , he thought. _As dangerous and insolent as that mother of hers._ He had taken part in the conquest of Dorne and still remembered the face of the Dornish princess, the complete lack of fear in her eyes. Dornishwomen were all wrong – not only were they licentious but they lacked female sensitivities, being as insolent and cruel as any man. The Martell women, at least. For years, he had been shuddering in instinctive fear at the memory of another Myriah Martell, the Prince's sister, who had gone to the scaffold with a child in her arms and another one in her womb with not a sigh or a tear, only a curse that she cried out as she died, her goodsister watching. Later, he had been one of those made prisoners and seen the woman _enjoy_ the executions of those who had not been so lucky. _Was that what King Baelor wanted for this realm_ , he wondered angrily, his eyes going to the children seated on the high table as befitting their rank. Princess Aelinor returned his stare without looking down as a girl should. Really, the Dornishwoman had proven too fertile – never a good thing for a queen. He looked at the youngest boy and wondered which corner of the Seven Kingdoms he would end up in. No one needed a fourth living son, a king least of all.

But all that didn't matter. Daeron was the Prince of Dragonstone and Myriah Martell his princess. It was a matter of honour to give them the most lavish welcome they had ever seen – and she was right, his lands were the richest ones in the realm, so he had the means to do it without too many efforts. A day's warning was more than enough to prepare a suitable feast and the most powerful of his vassals were either on their way or already arrived at Highgarden. To his amazement, there was no shortage of those who stared at Myriah Martell, entranced, and tried to attract her notice. The woman was their future queen and she was not even beautiful! He shook her head, disgusted. Clearly Prince Daeron had already adopted some of the Dornish ways because he didn't seem to mind.

But was that really so much worse than the words ravens carried from King's Landing? Whatever the Martell prince's faults, at least he hadn't humiliated his princess publicly the way the King did with Queen Naerys, a good and devout woman. Lord Romuald's lips curled with disgust at the thought of the impeding tournament that would take place at King's Landing. The rumour had it that the King wanted his new mistress, a Lothston, of all people, to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty…

"Are you going to attend the tourney, Your Grace?" he asked politely.

Daeron shook his head and smiled. He certainly did not intend to bear witness to his father's latest whims. Besides, Myriah's clashes with Aegon's mistresses were legendary. She refused to acknowledge them, they went to him, affronted, and the court had food for gossip for many months to come. Unfortunately, after one such clash Aegon had closed one of Myriah's charities. "I expect that my son will tell me all about it," he said.

With the feeling that he had missed something, the lord of the Reach inquired politely whether Prince Baelor would be present and stifled an involuntary exclamation of pride and satisfaction when he heard that the boy would be squiring for his own heir.

Noticing his reaction, Daeron and Myriah exchanged a look and a smile.

 


	19. Dark Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Now, you might want to go to my oneshot Worth of Dragons. It was initially meant to be the real 19th chapter of this story but inspiration overcame me a few months ago and out it went.

"He has found her a new replacement. And he even had the time to grow tired of _her_ and is looking for a new one."

Daeron had rarely heard such venom in his lady mother's voice – and certainly not when the subject of her scorn was one of his father's mistresses. He pitied the Bracken girl who had lost it all, her life included, just for a few months of love or what she had believed was love… but Naerys did not share his feelings. Gaunter than ever, she had lost the delicacy of her beauty, leaving only the bitter sharpness of someone who had lost one of the mainstays in their lives. Her purple eyes shone with the grim light of hatred and despair. He hadn't seen her in two years and he found her aged with ten more. Her solar now lacked even the only earthly thing that had used to give her joy – the many vases and pots of brightly coloured flowers. It was all black now, and the Queen was dressed in black, a living shadow in her tomb.

"That's what he does," Daeron replied, now annoyed himself. The necessity to pretend that he and his father had patched things over was digging hard at him, making him take leave of his reasonable nature. Really, did his mother think that Aegon would change his habits just because the Dragonknight had died defending him from the consequences of his actions? Was she so naïve? "Pity that Uncle Aemon was so good with his sword," he added angrily.

Naerys gave him a fearful look. "Daeron!" she whispered. "What are you doing! The gods are listening and…"

Ah, so she was not that far gone. She still held onto her gods. Daeron smiled a grim smile. It was human ears that he feared, not godly ones. "What?" he asked. "It's true. And he knows that's how I feel. Sometimes I think that… amuses him."

Naerys didn't protest because he was probably right. And still… "Daeron, he's your father. You cannot…"

"He's ruining this kingdom," he interrupted her angrily. "He's killing my children's spirit. With each day, Aelinor and Maekar grow more distant from us – and that's another thing he's doing on purpose. I understand duty but gods, couldn't Uncle Aemon be a little slower!"

Naerys looked quickly around to make sure they were not overheard. She could not bear to look at her son. Ever since Aegon had returned to King's Landing with their two youngest grandchildren, taken to punish their father for his disobedience, Daeron's dislike of him had grown into a full-bloomed hatred. "I am trying to do what little I can," she said but she knew she was not being entirely truthful. She had given even Daenerys to septas and handmaidens, mostly, because she had no energy to oversee her upbringing in any major way. She could do even less about her grandchildren. And still, it was easier with Aelinor who shared lessons and pastimes with Daenerys. What Aegon was doing with Maekar, she had no strength to ask about and even less power to influence. Secretly, she also wished it had been Aegon and not Aemon who died – and she prayed to the Mother to forgive her this sin.

Daeron, though, did not show even this tiny remorse. "If things keep going like this, when we come back a year later or if he decides to send the children over to Summerhall, they won't want us anymore. They won't want their parents."

Now quite angry, Naerys bit back the retort that the less influence Myriah had over the children, the better they might turn out. Behind her grandchildren's Targaryen features and Valyrian beauty, there was something disturbingly Dornish. Aelinor was already asking why girls were not brought over to important meetings like many courtiers brought their small sons. She even argued that it was ridiculous for women to be unable to sit the Iron Throne for no better reason than being women. If it was all about the blood, surely a king's daughter had just as much of Targaryen blood as a king's son? And if blood wasn't all that important, why should House Targaryen, as family, to be the only one entitled to the throne? Lots of questions to which Naerys could never find answers.

Maekar was worse. Naerys had watched her gooddaughter for years and marveled at her inability to see her youngest as a child, instead of someone who should be modeled as normal as possible. As cruel as it was, she actually thought Maekar was better here, away from his mother's constant worry. Of course, she could not say it to Daeron…

"I'll pray to the gods to help you," she finally said. She would, although she hadn't sought them out since Aemon's death.

Daeron did not appreciate her efforts. Instead, he rose. "Thank you," he said coldly. "And I'll go someplace quiet to think and then Myriah and I will have to think how to help ourselves."

_Even he isn't mine anymore_ , Naerys thought sadly as she watched him leave. _He's Myriah's now._ She would not have wanted it in any other way but it still made her sad.

* * *

Daeron was not surprised when she appeared before he reached the godswood overlooking the Blackwater Rush. He saw her long silvery-gold hair first and then the rest, shining against the rich golden and red leaves.

"Your Grace," she murmured, sinking into a deep curtsey.

"My lady," he said, pretending that he didn't notice the sight of her curves that she exposed so expertly. He always did so. What was the woman doing anyway? Aegon was starting to show his interest in her quite blatantly. She had certainly heard about Bethany Bracken's fate. Everyone at court had. "What leads you so far from the centre of the Red Keep?"

"I thought you might want to come here," she said, rising, and looked him straight in the eye. The young man was surprised until he realized that as the smart woman she was supposed to be, Serenei of Lys had realized that playing the coy seductress would not help her, so she was changing tacks. He could not help but admire her cool head. He liked such sharp minds. In her shoes, many women would have – and had – thrown themselves in the King's bed without thinking twice. But Serenei of Lys was beyond such momentous smiles of fortune. She could see that Aegon would not last long… that he was barely able to walk… that in a three or four years, he'd die. She had some plans for her future and they didn't include being a shortlived queen in deed to someone who would die soon.

The hair folded her like a heavy velvety cloak. Beneath, the black bodice strung with pearls clung to her amble bosom. Heavy Lyseni aroma filled his nostrils. He'd never admit it but for all the rumours about her family and dark practices, for all he knew about her reasons for trying to attract him, Serenei of Lys had this special quality about her that was enough to touch Daeron simply as a man.

But unlike his father, Daeron made his decisions with what sat atop his neck, not between his legs.

"That's something that many know," he said indifferently. "It's hardly a secret that I love the godswood."

"Indeed, it isn't. That's why I came." She paused.

"I am listening," Daeron encouraged her without too much interest.

"Take me with you to Summerhall," she said, looking him straight in the eye. It was the first time that he noticed just how unusual the green of her eyes was. There were thousands of small sunrays behind the emerald. That was the best way he could describe it. Her eyelashes were dark – paint, he supposed. With this fair hair, they could not possibly be this black.

He laughed. "You are quite blunt, my lady. But you must know that my lady wife happens to be a bit jealous."

"Ah, your lady wife." She waved this minor complication away. "She's with child once again, isn't she? She can hardly complain. You certainly keep her company at night more than enough."

That was certainly the attitude many mistresses had towards their lovers' wives. But he had never heard it spoken so straightforwardly by a woman. Such a thing was considered untoward. But once he heard her say it, he was suddenly reminded of the time when he and Myriah had had much more than what Lady Serenei had just described. Her silent accusation about Rhaegel and his anger over the situation with Maekar's birth had laid the foundation of estrangement they could never fully overcome. But now, standing in front of the loveliest woman at court who was offering herself to him, he realized that he didn't want her even in his bed. He loved and wanted only Myriah. He would settle things with her. It was ridiculous, this apathy of theirs. It had to stop.

The Lyseni woman must have read something in his face because she added, "Anyway, Your Grace, I only asked of you to take me to Summerhall, not turn me into a mistress."

"But that was what you meant," he said dryly.

"Whatever I meant, it doesn't matter now." Her fair face was flushed with anger. "I only wanted to have my chance to become a great lady in the future. You refused me but maybe one day, soon, I'll become a great lady anyway. And when this day comes, I'll remember how you degraded me, Your Grace, and I'll take my revenge upon you and yours."

Daeron's first reaction was anger. But something made him look behind the burning emerald eyes, into the golden lights. That were not there. Suddenly, he saw Lady Serenei not as someone grasping for grandeur but someone desperate. The youngest daughter of an impoverished noble. No wonder she used whatever means she could to advance herself. It was not only a matter of greed and arrogance but self-preservation. Because should she fall, there would be no soft mattress to land at.

He smiled a little and then said in a serious tone, "You're too bold, my lady. You do realize that you've just threatened the blood of the dragon, right? I could punish you severely for far less. But I hurt your womanly pride, so that's why I'll forget about this accident. I'd advice you to forget about it as well."

But even as he entered the godswood – not to pray to the old gods but have some peaceful time to think, - he could feel her eyes upon him and knew that she wouldn't forget.

 


	20. In the Godswood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for each and every comment this story got!

Autumn was Daeron's favourite season. Myriah preferred summer, and as hot as possible, because it reminded her of Dorne, of how she had grown up, and winter that always amazed her with the wonder of snow and novelty of something still not experienced, like a layer of ice so thick that she could cross a stream without even getting her feet wet, and Baelor liked spring because, as he said, it brought fresh aromas and anticipation of bright sunlight. But Daeron chose early autumn, the season when the painfully hot days of summer were over but the air was still nice and warm, whispering of prosperity and rewards for people's labour, and upcoming winter that could be awaited with satisfaction and not the real dejectedness that came with actual winter lasting so, so very long. It was the time when people could actually win the harvest, time for joy and satisfaction. For beauty. Even the godswood that bore no fruit looked lovely and festive with those multicoloured leaves and the golden web of light sun spun through their crowns. Daeron always found peace here, a reprieve from the constant fights with his father, the Small Council and their ridiculous ideas, and even worse – their not so ridiculous ideas that they tried to enact in the worst way possible.

Except when he didn't find it, that was it.

"I cannot tolerate it any more, Daeron, I am telling you!"

"I thought you might have got accustomed…"

"I'll never get accustomed to it! My life is hell! The Stranger's kiss would be a mercy!"

Elaena Targaryen, now Lady Plumm, stopped in front of a birch and angrily broke off a twig. Then, she turned around swiftly, gesturing wildly with her arm still lifted, and Daeron made a quick backward step since the sharp, still woozing end had come dangerously close to his eye. "Not bad at all," he said coolly. "You have a good aim."

"Maybe I should have become a spearman," she snapped, refusing to find any humour in the situation.

"A mace, I would say," Daeron corrected and saw her mouth twitch.

"I am thinking of leaving King's Landing," she said softly after a while, somewhat calmer now. "Go to our seat."

Daeron didn't comment. He didn't see Elaena enjoying the life in the deep end of the Westerlands. But the woman she had turned into enjoyed her life with Ossifer Plumm even less. Since he could not leave his post as Master of Horses, she would gladly leave him. Not that he treated her badly or anything. He was just plain stupid. _No doubt the King enjoyed marrying her off to him_ , Daeron thought spitefully. With the passage of years, Elaena was turning smarter and more savvy, and her husband was not. All of a sudden, the young man felt that he was being unfair. He and Elaena had always been something of kindred souls, valuing sharp mind over many things. It was easy for him to think about getting accustomed when he wasn't the one doing the thing!

"Maybe that will be better," he sighed. "Don't you want to talk to Rhaena first, though?"

"And tell her that I itch to commit both a regicide and spousecide?" Elaena rolled her eyes. "Is that even a word?" she added, suddenly amused by the thought of her sister's appalled reaction if she told her about her vile thoughts.

"We'll have to have it included in the vocabulary of the Common Tongue. I'll speak to the Maesters tomorrow," Daeron jested. "And I won't forget to give you the credit."

Laughter could bring one a long way. They both laughed and then Elaena asked, "Are you going to accompany me? I am going to see Myriah."

Daeron shook his head. "When I went to her this time yesterday, I found five other women and three children who had made it a point to destroy the furniture and chase away any newcomers."

Elaena perked up. "So, it's true? You bumped their heads into one another and handed them off to the Kingsguard who were instructed to kill them if they did as much as moved a finger?"

"I didn't _instruct_ them. No way." _Not because I didn't want_ to, Daeron thought. He was quite indulgent with his own children but he would have never suffered such a behavior from them and didn't see why he should from other children. "I just told Ser Gwayne that should he strangle one of them, he'd have my approval. Anyway, I am not going back there while there are still all those women around her. What is so special about her state anyway? It isn't as if we don't have five children already."

Elaena thought about this. As a woman who had felt healthy and vibrant till the very end of her pregnancies, she didn't see the sense in the whole have a rest thing either.

"I might visit her. I promise to rid her of any obtrusive visitors and insufferable children," she promised.

Smiling, Daeron watched her leave. And then, he turned his attention to the second thing he needed to do today.

"You may come out," he said loudly. "I know you are here."

He waited for a while and was just about to repeat his invitation, thinking that he might not have been heard after all, as unlikely as it was, when a soft rustle made him look at his left. The birches opened to reveal a small frame, a tiny ghost that looked unreal in the shades under the golden paths over their heads. In his clothing of red and brown, he could stay – had stayed – almost unnoticeable in the woods. The only thing giving him out was that fair hair of his. White hair. No child should have this. Or the ruby eyes looking up at Daeron without a hint of fear.

His bow was as clumsy as any other child's, though. Daeron smiled. "I have been disturbing you here for a while," he said. "Forgive me."

The boy shrugged. "It's a godswood," he said. "Not a bedchamber."

"Indeed."

Now, Daeron was examining the boy openly, without pretending not to. Was this supposed to be the famous raven on his cheek? _People can be so stupid_ , Daeron thought. It was just a birthmark. But people saw a raven on the boy's cheek, and a curse in the colour of his eyes and hair when it was just an unfortunate coincidence, much like Rhaegel's madness was.

People could also be cruel.

Rumours aside, though, in the last week or so Daeron had become truly interested in the little ghost of the woods. He supposed young Brynden Rivers could have been hiding from bullying and ridicule but from what he had heard and now seen at King's Landing, people were mostly afraid of the strange-looking child, so they mostly just avoided him. And in the few times he had spotted the boy here before Brynden spotted him, it looked like he drew something deeper from the trees, something beyond mere shelter or even delight. Daeron didn't know what it was but it had intrigued him a great deal.

Last night, he had calculated the child's age, returning to the year Mylessa Blackwood had been Aegon's mistress. The boy was about five year old now. A year younger than Maekar. Yet the look in those red eyes as they examined Daeron with curiosity equal to his own would point at him being older, maybe Aelinor's age. Which he was not.

"Well?" Daeron asked. "Did I pass the examination?"

It was not clear yet. The child kept watching him for a while before finally nodding. "You are an avid reader," he said. "Everyone says so. And your eyes are kind and not like the King's at all."

"And are you an avid reader?" Daeron asked. "Can you read already?"

Without knowing it, Brynden Rivers had already managed to win Daeron's initial appreciation. Since he was about twelve, he had already started being well-disposed to people who differentiated him from Aegon.

"Yes, I can."

Daeron bit back his smile. All of a sudden, the little, older-looking ghost had become a child like every other, boasting about an achievement. _It might even matter more to him_ , Daeron realized abruptly as he saw the amazement that he was actually addressing the boy and not avoiding him. Once again, he thought what a cruel place the world was and felt profound gratitude that Rhaegel would never suffer such an attitude, even if only because of who he was.

"I know squires who can't quite read at their twelfth nameday," he said. "You must be very clever."

Those red eyes shone. "I am!"

Daeron nodded. "And since you are so clever, will you tell me what you do in the godswood?"

Brynden started to say something but paused and looked aside. Then, "I am trying to hear them but they never answer."

Who were _they_? Daeron was about to ask the question when he remembered that the child lived in the Riverlands. And Mylessa Blackwood was said to carry the blood of the First Men. _Is it possible that the trees of the old gods talk to him? Can he have that sight maesters wrote for? What was it named? Tree sight? What was it_ doing?

"That's probably because these aren't weirwoods," he said. Brynden's face shone, as if the explanation made sense and a great difference. Perhaps he had felt abandoned by the trees. Perhaps he had come to rely on them as a constant because Daeron didn't think the people in the Riverlands were more accepting than those at King's Landing. "Come," he said. "Tell me what the trees say to you."

And he wondered why he thought he'd hear something else than a tale, one of those children liked to spin and even believed them. But he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. N. OK, that was supposed to be a much longer chapter but I decided to split it in two because… well, because as a Bloodraven fan I could not bring myself to have him share his time with Maekar, Myriah, Serenei, Aegon, Naerys, an accident, and a dark magic deal. So here I stopped.


	21. Palace Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who commented!

He's going to refuse."

Baelor's expression was so confident that Daeron wondered what had happened to his admiringly reasonable son. Not that Baelor was a docile child, far from it. But he was quite mild-mannered, usually, yet his recently celebrated eleventh nameday seemed to have marked a turn in the rounding of his character, and one that Daeron wasn't sure he particularly liked. In fact, he was quite sure he didn't like it at all. Baelor was ready to argue with his parents about anything and defend his view with drive. Daeron was tempted to say that the sky was blue, just to see how Baelor would refute this. And he would try, no doubt. Since his father usually proved him wrong, in his view, Baelor was dying to prove him, and to a lesser extent his mother, wrong about _something_.

_There's nothing wrong with the child_ , Lelia claimed with absolute certainty. _The problem is that the two of you are too young, as well. If you were older, you wouldn't have taken it so much to heart._ To his own chagrin, Daeron sometimes caught himself wanting to tell her that he was twenty-eight already. Only the thought that this sounded suspiciously alike to Baelor's claim that eleven was so much stopped him.

"We'll see," Myriah said lightly, determined not to give up on her son's provocations. Indeed, it didn't matter all that much whether Aegon would let her visit Dorne with the older children. She was determined to do so anyway, immediately after she gave birth. She was going to see her grandmother one last time and her goodfather wasn't the one likely to stop her!

Baelor looked disappointed at the lack of fight. Myriah and Daeron shared a look. Of late, they had started feeling like captive audience of a mummer's show, so unexpected their son's outbursts were and never similar to each other.

Abruptly, the door swung wide open to admit Aelinor and Daenerys, both flushed from running and carrying bouquets of bright autumn leaves. While Daenerys went out to look for vases, Aelinor sat next to her mother. "Is she moving?" she asked eagerly and Myriah smiled and told her that no, the babe was resting for now.

"She's always calm lately," Aelinor complained, and this time her mother laughed.

"I think that's because it's daytime," she said. "I think babies are soothed by the motions mothers make, so they sleep in the day and start dancing at night, especially when their mothers are trying to sleep. All of you did and this baby is no different. Aelinor, why are you so sure it's a girl?"

"Because it wouldn't be fair if it's _another_ boy," the girl said readily. "They outnumber me four to one. Not fair."

"Fair," Baelor said but his sister refused to deign to offer answer. He was biased.

For a while, Aelinor stared at her mother's belly under the gown but it looked like Myriah was right, there was no visible movement. "I am pleased the babe will be born here," she murmured. "Can't I go back to Summerhall with you?"

Not missing a beat, Daeron said, "Not quite yet."

He hoped that she wouldn't start begging them to take her along. It just wasn't up to them. Aelinor and Maekar were just pawns in the game of balance he and Aegon were playing. The thought that nothing depended on him, that he had to neglect his children's needs to keep the peace made him clench his fists in powerless fury. But that was how things were.

Daenerys returned with vases. Of course – two fine creations of mountain crystal that were incredibly precious. She couldn't pick something silver or sturdy in another way.

They arranged the leaves and left in a hurry, pleased with Myriah's compliment that they had a great taste.

"Taste?" Baelor repeated. "It's just dead leaves."

Daeron, though, noticed that his son waited for the girls to leave before saying that. It looked like Baelor had some, ahem, respect for them that he didn't have for his parents. Why it was so, Daeron who had grown up as an only child, could not fathom.

_Daenerys was born too late for me_ , it occurred to him. The idea of being wed to any other woman but Myriah was frightening but it would be nice if he could understand the dynamics between his children. Their fights, especially. Sometimes, they looked like they were actively trying to kill each other, yet not an hour later, they were best friends once again. How it worked, he had no idea.

Myriah rose and gave her gown a quick look. "What?" she asked him. "Do I look presentable enough for an audience with His Grace?"

"You do," he assured her, although the rich green gown strewn with pearls was far from being a truly courtly outfit. But there was nothing else that could contain her belly and cover her ankles at the same time. The things she had worn when with child before no longer fit. To their surprise, they had found out that since her last pregnancy, she had actually grown taller.

"I'll come with you," Baelor said and Myriah raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised, but did not refuse.

Soon, the two of them were at the door of the King's private chambers. Myriah ordered that Aegon should be informed about her desire that he received her and waited, shaking her head at the suggestion that meanwhile, they could bring her a chair. As usual when pregnant, she suffered nothing worse than being weighed down by the sheer size of her belly and some swelling in the feet that Daeron would rub away in the evening. She was not ill and saw no reason to be treated as if she were. So she stood in the hallway, listening to Baelor wheedling the Kingsguard at the door that he should be the one to give him his sword practice next week.

A few minutes later, the servant returned. "His Grace will receive you immediately, Princess," he said and they followed him through the thick oak doors studded with gold.

Myriah had rarely been in Aegon's private solar and hadn't set foot here in years. Her first thought was that this was what Lyseni pillow house should look like – darkened, with only a few candles burning in the half-dusk created by the drawn curtains in the bright day, permeated by heady scents of various perfumes. Myriah's first concern was not to bump into anything – in the semi-darkness, everything swam before her eyes. She looked around to locate the source of the slow, longing rhythm she was hearing. Her eyes met a group of singers… something about their smooth beardless faces sunken in fat showed het that they must be… _eunuchs_. _He's gone mad_ , she thought. _Mad with power. Mad with resentment._ And it served him for naught. Every attempt of his to destroy his great predecessor's legacy only illuminated the differences more sharply. For all his massive presence, Aegon was just a wane shadow, a weak flicker next to the bright light that had been Viserys Targaryen.

Serenei of Lys was leaning in a chair next to him. In the darkened room, her hair shone like a moon river, flowing in front of one shoulder. Her face was gaunt and Myriah thought that she might be depriving herself of truly nutritious meals as not to gain too much weight, although she was very early on her time.

Baelor and Myriah came close and Myriah was about to curtsy when her son stopped her and looked sternly at his grandfather's mistress. "Rise and curtsey, my lady," he ordered. "My mother bows only in the sept and before His Grace."

Stunned, Serenei looked at the King for confirmation but before Aegon could say something, Baelor grabbed her arm, yanked her upright, and pushed her to her knees. "You impudent woman!" he shouted. "Do you want to be punished?"

Myriah was just starting to tell him off because she was scared of what Aegon would do. The King, though, preempted her. He was watching Serenei with narrowed eyes. She had become too haughty, so certain in his feelings for her that she was already trying to be the queen in his court. She looked as if she expected him to punish the boy. Normally, he might have. But her certainty annoyed him. Was she taking him for granted?

He laughed. "When the boy was born, I was a bit disappointed," he said. "But you've given us a dragon, Myriah. Baelor, there are better ways to punish women. You don't need to become a barbarian."

Then, he looked at the woman in his feet. "Leave me now, Serenei. About this set of a necklace and bracelet you've been cajoling me for… You won't have it. And I expect to see the rubies I gave you last month in my solar within an hour. I hope that teach you some manners. The future Queen should be treated with due respect."

Unrestrained hatred marred the flawless beauty of the Lyseni woman's face, quickly contained within her cool mask. At this moment , Serenei could not say who she hated most – Aegon to whom she was no more than a lovely pet, or Myriah, the woman who had it all. Looking at her, Serenei could almost see the crown shining against her dark hair already. Hunger made her light-headed as she rose but she had placed restraints on her appetite. Aegon had lost interest in the two former mistresses who had borne him children as soon as they had started losing their figure. She would not let that happen to her.

At her leaving, Myriah curtsied to the King and Baelor bowed.

"Come here, take seats," Aegon said. For all his dislike of Myriah, she was carrying a new Targaryen inside her. She sat down without as much as wince. That was something he appreciated about her – she knew her duty and didn't try to gain credit by showing off the difficulties of her state. Barbra had groaned and moaned since the day her pregnancy had been confirmed; Missy had been as sick as a dog for months. They had both expected to be coddled and elevated, as if carrying his child wasn't an honour for them but something they should be instead compensated for. "What do I owe the pleasure of your visit to?" he drawled.

"I'd like to visit my grandmother in Dorne, Your Grace," Myriah said. "I haven't seen her since my wedding and she is begging me to go and see her one last time. She is very ill and isn't expected to recover. I'd really appreciate it if you give me leave. Besides, it would be good for repairing the relationship that is not at its best," she ended tactfully.

To both her and her son's surprise, Aegon didn't dismiss the idea out of hand. Instead, he looked at Myriah curiously. "When do you want to leave?"

She stared at him, mouth agape. In the dim light, her teeth glinted white and Aegon wondered whether they had started to decay in the inside of her mouth already. They must have, with so many pregnancies. Still, they looked intact… and her audacity had only grown. No sensible woman would have dared to ask such a thing. Repairing the relationship, she said. It was more like consorting with the enemy, to better plan against him. Since he had taken Aelinor and Maekar from Summerhall, she had been waiting and praying for his death. Her helpless hatred only served to amuse him.

"As soon as I give birth, Your Grace," she said. "And I'd like to take the children with me."

This time, Aegon chuckled outright, looking at her as if she was one of his lions. Everyone believed that they were tamed but no one dared to go near to find out. Or another exotic pet. Oh she had guts, this one! She had to make her demand even more outrageous. Delivering the future Prince of Dragonstone and his brothers in Dorne's hands. And no womanly sensitivities with her. No lying around, moaning her way to recovery as Naerys had done. No, she intended to give birth and go about her business. No problem at all. _She is a dragon at heart,_ he thought. Indeed, she had all the makings of one. If only she weren't Dornish! Again, his anger towards Naerys rose. She should have given him a daughter with Myriah's spirit but silver-golden hair and Valyrian eyes.

"We'll see," he said.

He had not refused. Myriah was utterly surprised and then immediately alert. His amicability was always a thing to fear, never long-lived. _Has he softened because of the babe_ , she wondered. _Because he's growing older and weaker?_ But then she remembered how Aegon had treated the woman who was carrying his own child, and realized that whatever Aegon had in mind, softening was not the reason for it.

Aegon ordered for refreshments to be brought, making his decision in the split of a moment. If Myriah could take the smell of freshly baked cake, he wouldn't dismiss her plea immediately. If she couldn't... well, then he'd decide.

Baelor happily started munching the cake with almonds and honey. Myriah's hand started to rise to her mouth but she managed to keep it down and her face showed the intense effort to clench her throat and lips. A moment later, the spasm was over.

She had bought herself some time.

* * *

Unbroken horses were the most interesting creatures in the world, Maekar decided. They always had been. Their wildness, their fierce eyes, their balking at the bridle fascinated him. The way the men who worked to break them acted cautiously was amazing!

The sun was already high in the sky and both beasts and men were drenched in sweat. The great yard where new horses were being broken was abundant with green, heavily trodden grass . It was greater than the tourney field, even. This was one of Maekar's favourite places in the Red Keep and he regretted that he couldn't come here with Aelinor. She had accompanied him a few times but remained uninterested.

From time to time, the men working with the horses gave him a perfunctory warning to stay aside but otherwise, no one paid him much attention. He had become a fixture in the training yard, coming here almost every day, listening and watching.

"I thought I have warned you to stay away from this place."

This was bad. Very bad. Slowly, Maekar turned round. His father was indeed standing in front of him, as enraged as Maekar had rarely seen him. Usually, it was his mother who scolded and punished them. If it was up to Daeron, they would get away with high hell.

"I asked you a question."

"This wasn't a question," Maekar elaborated, meticulous as ever.

Daeron didn't laugh, although his son's punctuality usually amused him a great deal. "This is serious, Maekar. I forbade you to come near to unbroken horses. You can be hurt, do you understand?"

The boy nodded and Daeron wondered why he bothered with explanations at all. Maekar was six-year-old. Of course he didn't understand. He only said that he did. And it would be stupid of Daeron to rely on a six-year-old to be reasonable.

"If I catch you nearby once again, you'll get such a trashing that you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week," he said.

"His Grace said that I could come here."

Daeron was surprised but only briefly. Not for a moment did it occur to him that it might be one of the lies children so easily made up. "He would," he spat, furious with both – Aegon for carelessly allowing the occupation, Maekar for resorting to the trick children used so often. _Can I do this, Father?_ No. _Can I do this, Mother?_ No. _Can I do it, Septa?_ No. _Can I do it, Ser Rogar?_ But of course. _What? Ser Rogar said it was fine!_

"Well, I say you cannot. And don't even think of trying to ride one of them, Maekar. I warn you, don't you dare. Now, come here. We're leaving."

Maekar hesitated, weighing his chances. He had to admit that his father was winning the situation. Angrily, he turned round and stomped towards the only door of the yard – the door to the stables, the one everyone used.

"Come here," Daeron said and helf out a hand but Maekar ignored it.

It all happened in the split of a moment. One of the men hit the horse too hard and the enraged animal simply reared up and crushed his chest before running into a terrified gallop straight through the grass.

"By the gods," Daeron whispered. His son was lying sprawled on the ground, his eyes closed. Under his head, a red puddle expanded with each passing moment.

 


	22. In the Dark Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to all of you who commented!

The maesters claimed that the curtains should be closed because light would be bad for both Maekar's head and eyes. But when Daeron asked how they knew it, they got away with some explanations that sounded very unconvincing, as if they had read it in their books at the Citadel but did not know the origin of that claim. Daeron was not surprised. People who were unconscious could not _tell_ them, right?

Still, they kept the curtains closed and the candles away from the bed. Logic said that when one's head hurt, light was rarely a good thing. And Daeron could not imagine a situation where one's head would hurt more. Myriah thought unconsciousness meant that their son was not in pain but Daeron wasn't sure he agreed, as much as he wanted to.

He wouldn't tell her that, though. And maybe she was right. Maybe Maekar didn't feel any pain.

A week had passes since the accident and the boy hadn't stirred at all, hadn't opened his eyes even once. Daeron, on the other hand, tried not to close his own because his dreams were then invariably haunted by the frantic horse and the form of his son on the ground... No matter how he sliced it, he still couldn't what he could have done differently to prevent it. It had happened so fast, no one had had the time to register things happening before they happened. And still, the feeling that he should have done something would not leave him alone, never, stealing his rest, occupying his mind, turning even the children's most innocent questions how it had happened into bitter accusations.

"When did you last eat?" he asked as soon as he entered the darkened chamber.

Myriah looked at him as if he had just asked her to determine when the third autumn after this one would come. Her hair was unraveled about her face, her eyes were dark holes against her waxy skin. She was wearing her favourite mauve robe but it now looked crumpled and somehow misshapen which was strange since her belly hadn't moved down yet. It looked so big on her that it was actually loose at the neck, revealing the collarbones incised under her skin.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I think I had some bread last night."

She did not look convinced. She might have taken this bread as late as this morning or as early as two nights ago. Here, in this world of twilight and illness, time did not pass as it did outside.

"Has there been any change?" Daeron asked, looking at the bed. Maekar was lying in a slightly altered position now but it was certainly Myriah and the maesters who had moved him while examining him for a change and changing the sheets.

"No." Myriah's voice was even, masking her anxiety somewhat. "But we managed to give him some broth."

"We?" Daeron asked sharply. He'd prefer that Myriah would not be there for this. Giving nourishment to someone who was unconscious was always dangerous – it could go to the lungs and suffocate them. And the people around might not even realize that something was wrong, for there might not be any choking before the facial changes took place. The thought of Myriah possibly seeing their son die was more than he could accept. His own memories and guilt were bad enough.

Myriah looked at him guiltily. "Yes, I…" And fell silent.

The maester who had been mixing some powders near a candlestick came close, bowing. "I was telling Her Grace that she needs to bathe and eat," he said.

Daeron looked at Myriah. "He's right," he said. "You cannot do anything for Maekar that someone else can't. But this babe depends on you. Go to your chambers, eat and have some rest."

She shook her head. "I'm going to eat but here…"

It was better than nothing, so Daeron decided not to argue the point.

From the shadows at the other side of the bed, a small figure rose from her stool and Daeron startled, needing a moment before he recognized his daughter's white face. "Why are you here?" he murmured, angry at Myriah, Lelia, and the maesters because of this. At one point or another, all the children had demanded to be let it – but a sickroom was hardly a place a child would want to stay longer. Only Aelinor was different and he relied on Myriah to steer her out of the room if she overstayed her welcome. Clearly, he had relied in vain, although Aelinor had made efforts to make herself as invisible as possible.

"Is he going to die?" the girl asked.

"No," her mother snapped. "He'll be fine, at the end."

Daeron felt a lump in his throat. This was the first time someone had actually asked the question in front of him – Myriah would not hear of that, his mother spent all her waking hours in prayers, and even his father preferred dancing around the subject, as if afraid that if he asked, he'd be answered.

Aelinor nodded, as if her mother's words made perfect sense, instead of being just fears of someone who couldn't bring herself to face this possibility. "So I thought," she said. "I often hit him on the head when he's being especially obnoxious, and he didn't die."

It now occurred to Daeron that despite his daughter's obvious fear of the sight her brother was, she actually didn't know what death was, not where Maekar was concerned. She didn't remember the time he hadn't been around and actually, at one point hadn't believed that there _was_ such a time. He didn't know whether that made it better or worse – because Maekar clearly wasn't getting better and he could not exist on broth indefinitely. He had already grown frighteningly frail and Daeron was sure that despite his recent growth, he now weighed less than when he had been taken from Summerhall a year ago.

"Especially obnoxious?" he asked, suddenly feeling that he had to speak before Aelinor could. He could already anticipate her next words – that Maekar could not die because that meant that she, too, would die in just two year time. In this dark, potions-smelling dwell of dread, the words would sound like a prophecy.

Aelinor nodded. "He doesn't do it all that often but when he does…" She looked at her brother. "A smack on the head helps a lot."

Despite everything, Daeron smiled. If only their current situation was as easy one to solve as having two children accusing each other of being obnoxious! "Doesn't that pain him?" he asked.

Aelinor nodded. "But after, he's likely to be silent for a while," she clarified, still looking at the bed. "I want him to wake up already," she said.

"So do I, Aelinor. So do I."

* * *

"Where is the Grand Maester?"

"Would you please lower your voice?" Daeron snapped.

The King glared at him but to his son's surprise, he did as he was bid. His eyes, almost lost in the fat of his face, looked around the chamber pointedly, as if he expected to find the Grand Maester hidden behind the curtains. When he didn't see him since he hadn't come in for two days, he waddled over to the bed and stared at his grandson intently. If Daeron didn't know him as he did, he'd say he looked troubled. "By the gods, the child looks smaller," he said, and Daeron was scared that he'd say what he and Myriah secretly thought, as well. But he didn't. Instead, he turned his icy look to the young maester. "Where is Grand Maester Janor?" he asked.

If he wasn't beyond things like empathy right now, Daeron might have felt some sympathy for the man. The maester was a few years younger than him and a few months ago, he had arrived with glowing recommendations straight from the Citadel. He was supposed to be great at war tactics – not that it had saved Aegon's campaign in Dorne from turning to a spectacular failure – as well as healing. But he had had no experience with court and especially with kings like Aegon.

"I believe he had some important tasks to deal with, Your Grace…"

" _More important than taking care of the Prince?"_

Despite Aegon's icy tone, Daeron noted that his voice was actually quite low. But then, the King only shook his head. "It's a matter that I'll have to clear out with this coward, not you. After all, he left you here only because he wanted my grandson to die under your care and not his. I suppose there isn't anything that can be done for the boy?"

The young man nodded. In the faint candlelight, his eyes were very wide. "I'm afraid not."

Myriah's hand flew to her mouth and when she took it down, there was a red bleeding imprint of teeth. "That's a punishment from the gods," she whispered. "I didn't want him then – and they'll take him from me now."

"Don't speak nonsense, girl," Aegon snapped. "It was a stupid horse. Nothing to do with the gods at all, so knock this stupid idea out of your head. Such accidents happen every day."

"Would this one have happened if you hadn't told him that he could go there whenever he wanted to when I had already forbidden him?" Daeron asked angrily. " _Because_ I had forbidden him? You know what he always says, don't you? If I want to give orders one day, I'll have to learn to take orders first. If you hadn't let him…"

"Stop singing!" Aegon growled. "I couldn't know that…"

"Maybe we can try to stimulate a response to the pain…" the maester suggested hesitantly.

"Response to the pain?" Daeron asked, incredulous. "By _hurting_ him?"

"Out," Myriah said, looking at the maester. "We have no further need of you."

The man looked at the King who nodded; clearly relieved, he took off.

"Good riddance, I say," Aegon murmured after him. "Harming the boy further to make him better? I thought those from the Citadel were _smart_."

"That's turning into a mummer's show. I know what we need to do." Over the last few days, Myriah's face had turned yellow, her eyes encircled by deep lines. Daeron now had a look what she would look like when she grew old, only then she would probably look better. But her eyes shone with the sharpness of a well-honed blade. "Lady Serenei."

Both men stared at her, uncomprehending.

"I heard that she wielded some magic…"

"She does have that reputation," Aegon admitted. "But that's the last thing I would expect from a good girl like you."

This time, the word _good_ did not sound like insult. He gave her a serious look, the chance of the very thing that amused him and made his relationship with Serenei more exciting being actually confirmed and used in a matter of life and death scaring him all of a sudden.

"Magic is a serious thing, Myriah," he said. "Are you sure you want to proceed?"

Myriah and Daeron shared a look. "Do we have a choice?" he asked.

 


	23. Those Who Would Not Refuse Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to everyone who commented and everyone who keeps reading even after the release of the World book which made this non-canon compliant.

In the silence that filled the chamber, none of them dared look at each other. The gravity of what they were about to do kept them apart and at the same moment, they moved, so they would be physically apart as well: Aegon took a seat on the settee since it was the only piece of furniture around that was able to accommodate his girth. Myriah took her place at her son's bedside once again. Daeron went to the window and stared blankly at the courtyard below.

Time went on, condemning and terrifying. Each passing moment was another chance for them to think of the real significance of what they were to do. Myriah and Daeron had spent their entire lives disdaining black arts and all that they stood for; Aegon feared their destructive power, more unpredictable than even his worst excesses. With his own vices and indulgence, he always knew that he could stop whenever he wished. He just didn't want to. Black arts, though… they were an element in themselves and like every element should be treated with utmost caution.

Still. They were Maekar's last chance. Everyone else had given up on him. As little fondness as Aegon had of his grandchildren, as much as he cherished them as weapons to strike at Daeron's heart with, Aegon had never wanted them dead. And his son was right. He had given Maekar permission to be near untrained horses just because of the pleasure of allowing something Daeron had forbidden, thinking that it would be fun if the boy decided that he now preferred Aegon over his own father. After all, how much fondness could he keep for parents he rarely saw? It had never occurred to him that such an accident might happen. He cared not for the gods – no doubt Naerys' prayers would spare him some of the torment his ungodly life guaranteed him in death but even if they wouldn't, he would not change a thing, - but something about kinslaying resonated with him, a result of his strict upbringing that quite surprised him.

Aelinor peeked in the bedchamber and her mother snapped a dismissal so harsh that the girl closed the door without asking questions.

"But where is she?" Daeron finally asked. Now that they had decided to go with the thing they detested, he wanted it done and over with, Maekar recovered and them trying to forget all about the last weeks.

Aegon shrugged. "She disappears from time to time."

His tone was quite nonchalant for a man who had had a former mistress "disappear" from time to time as well, only to catch her having an affair with one of his own Kingsguard. Daeron wanted to ask whether Aegon had Serenei tracked at all times, or simply appointing guards to her without bothering to ask her if she wanted them. But he didn't. Aegon could change his mind if provoked in the slightest and Daeron wasn't prepared to risk it now.

Behind the curtains, the sun pressed low against the red walls and paved courtyards. Faint breeze stirred the heavy fabrics. The first shades of dark sneaked into the room, pale forebearers of the coming night. Myriah shivered as the faint outlines of shadows started dancing over her son's face. As hard as she fought it, they never failed to bring about the thought of him dead, his stillness permanent, his entire being swallowed by the cruel, vast power of the Stranger.

When the door finally opened, they all looked at it with both relief and fear. But the woman who entered was not Serenei of Lys, albeit she was possessed of the same fair beauty. Looking at her, Myriah was stricken of just how alike the two women were, both silver-haired, with finely chiseled faces and deep purple eyes. The only difference was that Serenei was the picture of glowing health… and that Aegon was mad about her.

"What are you doing here, Mother?" Daeron asked, taken aback. "I thought you were in the Great Sept."

"I was. And I came back."

The Queen looked at him intently. "And I've heard you had sent for… for her."

She did not say Lady Serenei's name aloud but she did not look at her royal husband either. It was as if after Aemon's death, Aegon had stopped existing for her. She no longer even hated him.

Myriah made an impatient gesture with her hand. Something in Naerys' tone rubbed her the wrong way. Was it really the time for the Queen to question them? She might have forgotten that it was her grandson dying in front of her, for all the attention she paid Maekar. Her eyes were still locked on Daeron.

"You shouldn't have anything to do with her magic. It's dangerous. You don't know what you're doing."

Daeron stared at her, thinking that it was the most unfortunate moment for her interest in something of the world to return. She had clearly gleamed the reason for their summoning of Lady Serenei and was opposed to it.

"Worse than this?"

He hadn't looked at the bed but Naerys did. For a moment, her features softened as she stared at the child, at his emaciated frame and the black bruises under his eyes. "He can still recover."

Daeron shook his head. "He can't. He _won't._ Not on his own."

Behind them, a maid had crept in to start lighting the few candles Myriah allowed in this chamber. The fire in the fireplace burned bright, the only thing in the warm autumn that could keep someone who could not move constantly warm. Myriah was constantly worried that in the condition their son was in, his body might have lost the ability to produce shivers which would have let them know that he was cold.

Naerys sighed. "You are both out of your minds with worry. And the gods see that if I could do something to save him, I would have. But there should be some limits."

"Should there be?"

She shivered and grabbed his hand, clutching it with strength that took him quite aback.

"At least wait for tomorrow. It'll soon be dark. Don't do it at night. Dark forces are more powerful when protected by the veil of darkness."

Daeron wrenched his hand free.

"You seem to know more about darkness than I would have expected of a saintly woman like you," Aegon said. His small eyes, sunken in the fat of his face, gleamed when, maybe for first time in his life, he looked at his sister and wife with interest. "Now, kindly shut up."

"If those elements are indeed stronger at night, that's a good thing," Myriah said.

Naerys ignored her – she could say that her words would have no effect on a desperate mother. Instead, she addressed her son again. "Daeron, these things are more than sorcery. They are a deal. You cannot receive something from darkness without giving it something in exchange."

He nodded. "I realize that. And I don't care what the price is. It's about his life, don't you see!"

"About the life he's already lost!" Naerys exclaimed. "What you're trying to do, it's against nature. It can't be good."

His mother was right, Daeron knew it. And yet a wave of bitterness overwhelmed him. Was this how she had always been? Did good and bad matter more to her than their lives? He remembered his father's constant anger towards her and this time, he realized that he could understand a small part of Aegon's antagonism. _She loves her gods more than she does any of us_ , he thought. Perhaps that was the better way, the easier way, to never do something wrong no matter what.

But he wasn't his mother. He didn't have her unwavering faith.

"I want you to leave," he said.

She stared at him, mouth agape. "What?"

"I don't want you here, Mother," he told her quite bluntly, so there could be no doubt that this was what he meant.

Naerys opened her mouth to protest. And then, her eyes went from Daeron to Myriah, to Aegon. All of them stared at her with various degrees of disbelief and disappointment – and in Aegon's case, a little gloating. That was the first time since Daeron's birth when he was taking a stance against his mother in Aegon's presence.

Silently, she turned and left. At the door, she almost collided with Lady Serenei and pulled her skirts closer, as if afraid that the woman's sorcery would rub off on her.

Now, there was no concealing of Serenei's swollen belly and bloated face as she did her best to curtsy. She was too far along and if Myriah wasn't mistaken, she was retaining so much water that she would have lost her figure no matter what. Once again, the Dornishwoman wondered whether warring was really so much harder than carrying a child to term and bring it into the world through pain, and blood, and feces. The sight of Serenei's discomfort suddenly made her feel all the burdens of her own, far more advanced pregnancies. Until now, they had been pushed to the periphery of her mind and sensations, her worry over Maekar taking the first place. But for a brief moment, she could feel what the Lyseni lady was feeling tenfold, for this was the first time Serenei would give birth: the grim resolve of a woman who had no choice but push through it till the end, when she would either deliver her baby or die.

"I've been waiting for your summons, Princess," she said. Her eyes veered briefly away from Myriah to seek Daeron's face but soon enough returned to the other woman.

"You have?" Myriah asked. "How is that possible? Even I didn't know I'd send for you."

Serenei smiled faintly. "But I have seen what mothers are capable of to save their children. And I know how the Prince's recovery is going… that it isn't going anywhere."

Her effrontery was stunning. But all Myriah felt was a profound relief. The woman had saved her the prelude, the explanations, the humiliating begging... well, she was not sure about the last part yet. But it felt good to know that they were both aware of what the situation was.

"Are you going to help him?" she asked.

Slowly, Serenei came near the bed and held out a white hand. Myriah could not help her shiver. Now, with the other woman so close, she realized that she had never seen anyone to carry their pregnancy so hard. Serenei's face was veined and reddened under the paint, her teeth yellowed. The rings had dug so deeply in her swollen fingers that nothing could make them come out. Myriah resisted the urge to bat this pale hand away from her son's face.

Serenei shook her head. "No, I can feel that there is no more than a thread of life left in him. I wonder how he could have even clung to it for so long, it's so frail. But then, I've heard that children were resilient."

It was weird listening to a mother in waiting speak like this. Myriah wondered what Serenei's life had been like. Most women, from seamstresses to highborn ladies, had had at least some contact with children through their life. Was this another letdown of the circumstances of Serenei's family?

"Maekar was always of stronger constitution than most children," Myriah only said.

Serenei nodded. "But all strength in the world cannot help him now," she said. "And the Seven have refused to hear your prayers."

Myriah was vaguely aware of Daeron coming nearer and then stopping, as if he realized that it was only between Serenei and her. The fire cracked. Shadows danced on the walls.

"Are your gods going to refuse me as well?" she asked.

For a long time, Serenei was silent. Then, she shook her head, slowly. "No," she said. "I don't think they will. I cannot know, though. And the gods I serve… they aren't like the ones you worship."

She paused. "They will want something in exchange," she finally said. "They always do. And we're talking of something as great as bringing life to someone who has already lost it. Only death can pay for life."

At first, Myriah did not understand. But Serenei's eyes made it all clear. She was staring downwards, straight at Myriah's belly.

Without thinking, the Princess placed her hands over the bulge, as if to protect her unborn child. Then, she turned about and looked at her child who had already been born and would die soon. The world spun around in a dizzy whirlwind of lights and shadows and Daeron's arms around her were the only thing keeping her upright.

"You aren't going to faint right now," he said in her ear. Then, she heard him address the Lyseni woman. "Is it going to work? Are you sure?"

"I am not."

For a long moment, Myriah and Daeron stood clinging to each other. But they both knew what they were going to do. They were not going to lose a child whom they have had for years for one who hadn't even lived for real.

"Is it the only way?" Daeron finally asked.

"It is," Myriah said hollowly. It made sense to pay for life with life. It was even just. Just unbearably hard.

She pushed him slightly away and stood on her own. "I don't expect that you'll do it out of the goodness of your heart, my lady," she said. "And indeed, I wouldn't have it if you did. You'll try to recover something precious for us and I feel that a reward is in order. I cannot think of one great enough, though. Maybe you would…?"

Serenei's eyes went to Daeron who understood her look and stepped away, so he would not hear the conversation.

"I do, indeed, have something in mind that would have delighted me," she said.

Myriah nodded, pleased. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I'd like to know that no matter what, my child will always have a place at court." Serenei gave a covert look in Aegon's direction. She had been speaking so softly that even Myriah could barely hear her. Speaking of court that Myriah would hold the greatest sway at was not something Aegon would be delighted to hear. "That it will never lack for anything."

Abruptly, Myriah realized the fear that Aegon's mistresses who had provided him with children must live in. They must be terrified that the moment Daeron took the throne, he'd take away whatever provisions Aegon had made for his bastards… if Aegon didn't do it himself on a whim before. He had never provided for his children by his Essosi mistress after the affair had ended, after all. Later, she would feel profound sympathy for those women, so elevated once, because she was young and strong, because she was wed to a young and strong man and not a fickle pleasure seeker like Aegon. But now, her entire being was focused on the deal she had to make. The deal that would kill her babe.

"No matter what, your child will always have a place at court," she said. "I swear it."

Serenei stared at her intently and nodded, pleased, before beckoning Daeron to them once again. "His life might not be a happy one, though," she warned. "His life might be one of blood, tears, and torment. There is no way for you to know what you're buying. Such things always leave a mark."

Once again, Daeron and Myriah looked at each other. The premonition was so dark that they felt chilled. But they had to try. A life of blood, tears, and torment was still a life. One that Maekar would lose for sure if they did nothing.

"Very well," Serenei said. "Now, you must leave, Your Grace. And don't let anyone through this door. The child, the mother, and I – that's all who are allowed to be here."

"I won't disrupt anything," Daeron said, his resolve leaving him all of a sudden when faced with leaving the two of them alone with her and whatever power she might unleash.

She gave him a harsh look. "Only the child, the mother, and I," she said once again. "You will disturb everything just by being here."

Myriah nodded without looking at him; silently, Daeron went out, making a gesture at Aegon who followed with speed that was quite surprising for his corpulent body.

None of the two women spoke. Between them, the boy's breathing became even fainter.

Finally, Serenei moved: she went to extinguish all sources of light but a few candles, dispersed in various places in the room so far away from each other that the chamber was sunken in deep silken shadows. "Untie everything about you," she said and started doing it with her own person. "Nothing on you should be tied or braided. Comb your hair. No knots."

Myriah started brushing her hair out furiously, drawing the silver hairbrush savagely through the knots, the pain giving her some small measure of grim comfort.

When they were both ready, Serenei went to the table where she had left a small bag. Myriah watched her with wide eyes.

From the red leather bag, Serenei took out a small vial contained in a cylinder, so it would not break by chance.

"Give me a goblet," she said and dripped seven drops of a clear liquid into the silver cup Myriah handed her. Her movements were precise despite the faint light and also very cautious. Then, she filled the goblet with wine and gave it to the Princess without putting the stopper into the neck of the vial.

"Drink it," she said.

Obligingly, Myriah raised it to her lips and then hesitated. "What's that?" she asked.

"The tears of the Weeping Lady," Serenei replied.

The tears of Lys. Myriah shuddered. Now, she understood. She had to kill her babe with her own hands, her own sacrifice to the dark goddess Serenei would summon. Once again, her free hand went to her belly where the child was kicking wildly. All of a sudden, she felt a desperate surge of protectiveness. Then, her eyes went to the bed and she raised the goblet and drank it before she could change her mind.

Serenei was watching her unblinkingly. With a nod, she indicated that they were to go to the bed.

Myriah's hand shot out when Serenei tilted the vial over Maekar's lips, as if she wanted to stop her.

The Lyseni lady gave her a calm look. "He has lost his life even without it," she said. "Nothing can harm him now."

Still, Myriah looked away as the poison went onto her son's lips, one drip at a time. To her horror, when she finally watched, Maekar was licking the drops, still unconscious. He had never done it with the lifesaving liquids they had dripped into his mouth patiently.

"Give me your hand," Serenei said and Myriah extended it. A long nail, as sharp as a blade, grazed at the back of her wrist, cutting it open. Seven drops of blood, warm and scarlet, fell onto the boy's lips where they started hissing, startling Myriah and eliciting a gasp of horror.

"It's nothing," Serenei said calmly. "He's starting to fight for his life already."

When Myriah touched her son's cheek, it was burning.

"Now what?" she asked in a small voice.

"Now we wait," Serenei said, closing her deadly vial, and started tying her attire and hair once again before doing the same for Myriah. After Maekar's hot skin, hers was as cold as ice.

Myriah stayed at the bedside and Serenei went to her bag, put the vial back in, and to Myriah's astonishment took out a crotchet-work. She had never imagined that Serenei of Lys might be engaged in such trivial activity but as the knitting grew bigger, so did the shadows in the room, reaching a size that could not be natural, dancing and wrapping themselves around the three of them. The knitting woman no longer resembled someone who was engaged in a pastime. Not at all.

The first pain hit so abruptly and severely in the underside of her belly that Myriah gasped aloud. Whatever would come out of their deal, it was starting now.

 


	24. A Fur and a Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thanks and a box of cookies for everyone who commented. Coconut ones, with white chocolate frosting if you'd take my advice.

Summerhall was just the home Myriah had always wanted – partly because she had always left a good deal of her wishes purposefully vague and partly because Summerhall was not something that she had inherited, been granted, or any of the likes. She and Daeron had been given a vast parcel of land and nothing more. And they had turned it into the home they needed and desired, from the very first designs of the great hall. People who were new to Summerhall and happened to come either from the Crownsland or Dorne were usually unpleasantly surprised to see either the Dornish style of the more informal doors and windows or the dragons proudly gracing the far wall of the great hall. Myriah had disliked having red and black everywhere, so they didn’t have them; Daeron had claimed that should he see another sun in Myriah’s chambers, he’d have to close his eyes and go around blind, so they had compromised. With time, Summerhall had taken the shape of the home of their dreams – not his and hers but theirs. And with time grouting the wedge between them with the lime of living together, happiness had come.

Dragonstone was another matter. Myriah had disliked it from the moment she had first set eyes on it from the ship. It was so cold and unpleasant. A castle of dragons could not be anything but unsettling to the eye of every Dornishwoman, even one married to the Prince of Dragonstone. Every year, they had to spend some time here and every year, she counted the days to their leaving before they even arrived!

“Are you well, my lady?” Ilena Redtree asked, coming with over with a fur to wrap around Myriah’s shoulders.

The Princess nodded, still staring ahead in the swirling mist. The sun never shone on Dragonstone – the volcano and the foam of the sea created an effective veil wrapping the small island in constant stark colourlessness. She was trying to penetrate it with her eyes, see whether there were any ships or ravens coming, something that would give them an idea of how things were going. Was Aegon’s illness to be his very last one? Or would he surprise everyone by scrambling his way to health once again? She stared more intently, trying to hide her hands in the skirts of her gown. Ilena had had much to do lately and she didn’t want to worry her when nothing could be done.

“I’ll take care of her, Ilena,” Daeron’s voice came from behind. A moment later, he had already secured the golden fur around his wife’s shoulders, taking her left hand in his palms. “This pain again?” he asked and Myriah confirmed – there was nothing else that she could do.

“The spasms get worse here, at Dragonstone, don’t they?” he asked, his concern evident as he rubbed her icy fingers and wrists.

She shrugged. “I think so,” she said. There was nothing that could be done about it – they couldn’t stop coming to Dragonstone and letting him come alone wasn’t this good of an idea. She had tried it and she had started missing the children and him right at the end of the first month. So they now practiced it in another way – he came first and she joined him and the children a few weeks later. Sometimes, Aegon even sent Aelinor and Maekar for a month or two. Myriah was desperate to see them, although she knew he probably did it just for the anticipation of the day when they had to come back – and not because he enjoyed their company so much!

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “To get you warm.”

She looked away from the embrasure at the top floor of one of the dragon towers and sought his face. “Are you going to come with me?” she asked. It did not happen every day that he had time for her in the early afternoon when she had some hours meant for rest.

He nodded and her face lit up. “We can go to the volcano!” she offered in a burst of enthusiasm, and Daeron laughed, now working on her other hand.

“I swear, Myriah, I’ve never seen another person as drawn to that hell as you are.”

Maybe it was true, what people said – that fire was the shape the sun took at night. Maybe that was one of the reasons the sun of his life was so drawn to the flames bubbling on the bottom of this pit that looked so bottomless. Another thing that they had in common? No. Daeron quite disliked the volcano. It was dangerous. But he was strict in making sure that the level of the lava was not higher than expected. An abrupt explosion could kill everyone on the island, so Myriah’s suggestion was welcome to him. It was almost time for his inspection anyway.

“Am I to accompany you, Your Grace?” Ilena asked.

“No,” Myriah replied. “I’ll take Reya instead. Go and have some rest now. My prince will take care of me.”

Her friend truly looked unwell.

With visible relief, Ilena left them.

“Is she with child again?” Daeron asked, having finished with Myriah’s fingers and standing at the embrasure next to her. “She looked downright green.”

After all those years of a childless marriage, Ilena now gave birth every year. This far, she had made it to four – a son and three daughters, all healthy and lovely. Myriah looked down. “Probably,” she said.

For the last three years, she had conceived three times but she had never made it to the fourth month – she lost the babes just when she started to hope that this time, it would be different. She didn’t even know why she hoped. Somehow, she knew that she would never give birth to a living child again.

“Look!” Daeron suddenly exclaimed. His eyes, a bit sharper than hers, had spotted the dark wings beating for the castle with certainty that could only come from practice.

Myriah pressed her hands together. “I pray there are good news,” she whispered, the volcano now forgotten.

“Come on,” Daeron said. “Let’s go downstairs. They will never find us here.”

He wrapped and arm about the small of her back and led her downstairs, scared that the numbness might get to her toes. It had happened before. If it did now, she might fall on the steps to her death. The way she leaned against him told him that his fears were justified.

“Here,” he said, laying her on the settee in her solar, to the horror of her ladies who ran over with warm towels and hot tea. “Try to have a rest. Don’t move. I’ll come back as soon as I’m done there. And I’ll send Maester Sibol over as soon as I see him.”

“Please don’t!”

The King didn’t scare Myriah at all, for all his efforts, but the old maester, with his vile potions and the strength in his arms and fingers was quite a different matter! Myriah had seen her mother and grandfather struggling with the same disease, this unexplainable numbing and whitening of the limbs. The maesters at Sunspear had tried everything, to no avail. But Maester Sibol wanted to make sure that he didn’t miss anything.

“Calm down,” Myriah turned to her ladies. “It’s fine. I am not dying yet.”

By the gods, by the fuss one would think that she had! The fire was fanned; hands were being wrung over the fact that the healing ointment could not melt fast enough; furs were examined and discarded and when one was finally wrapped about her feet, it was done so gravely as if the women were handling a shroud.

“What’s going on?” a young voice asked and Myriah’s face lit up. Without thinking, she tried to rise, only to moan and fall back when her feet wouldn’t hold her. She hadn’t seen her eldest in more than half a year, with him squiring for Lord Mertyns’ after the Tyrell he had first served had died. They usually met at Summerhall or when she and Daeron travelled through the Marches, so seeing him here, at Dragonstone, was quite the surprise.

“Are you unwell, Mother?” he asked, taking her white-blue hands for a kiss – and a light blowing of warm breath. Yes, Baelor was someone who could stay warm even here, at Dragonstone. _Must be his snake blood_ , Myriah thought. She would have liked it if she could say the same about herself but alas, even snakes could be… well, off.  
“I am well,” she said, smiling. It was not a lie – seeing him was incredibly restoring to her mood, if not her health truly. “Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she added, knowing that there was no use to ask him why he was here. He was here because his lord was. It couldn’t be anything else.

He plopped down on the carpet and started talking about all the great new things that had happened to him and all the good men and women he had encountered. He took some extra time to explain to her what hunting was and tell her all the details about the last one he had taken part in. Like most men, he enjoyed the activity, although for the life of her Myriah could not understand why. She was pleased that he felt good where he was, especially given the fact that Lord Mertyns’ was an avowed foe of Dorne and leaned to Aegon’s side over Daeron’s – or had leaned, maybe. Myriah’s eldest had the gift to draw people to him and Daeron had put that to good use.

Her ladies had retired discreetly to leave her with Baelor. But her hope that their departure meant that she would not have to drink the bitter tea proved wrong – her son determinedly handed it to her and watched her like a hawk until she had licked the last nasty drop. _Ah, we have a vengeful one here_ , Myriah thought and considered whether she should retaliate by stroking his hair just when the door opened to admit Daeron. She looked at him and smiled at his surprised delight at the sight of Baelor.

“Our son was just telling me about his last hunt, my lord,” she said. “He promised me that next time, he’d save me a new fur for my feet.”

“That’s good,” Daeron said and paused. “My queen,” he said. “I am laying a kingdom at your feet.”

“Blessed be the gods!” Myriah cried out and rose despite the pain. In fact, she did not feel it at all. Later, she would be sorry that she had delighted the gossipers positioned at her door. But now, she felt only profound relief. That was the end of Aegon’s whims. The end of the ruining of the kingdom. Most importantly, that was the end of her separation from her children when they were still young enough for relationships to be repaired.

Daeron didn’t agree outright but didn’t scold her either and his silence was an answer in itself.


	25. First Signs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for every comment this story got!

The coronation was swift and quite lacking in grandeur, causing more than one whisper in the Red Keep and the streets of King's Landing. Many regretted this omen for a reign lacking the pomp of Aegon's court but many more yet were simply relieved that they had ended up with a king who clearly meant to get some work done for the realm and not only his own vanity.

The problems, though, did not even wait for the ceremony to be over.

"What's this noise?" Daena Targaryen asked, sniffing disdainfully at the flood of builders and woodworkers streaming steadily over the usually empty drawbridge to the Maegor's Holdfast.

"The builders and carpenters," Myriah replied. "Yes, my king was as thoughtful as to provide bigger hearths for my needs."

The Princess sniffed. "You're determined to bring Dorne here, it seems," she said. The omission of the official address did not escape the attention of the courtiers and ladies gathered to attend them. It was true that Myriah had not been crowned yet – it would happen in less than a week, on a joint event with Daeron's own coronation – but in deed, she _was_ the Queen. Instead, Daena kept treating her as if she was still the Princess of Dragonstone and thus, somewhat equal to her. If she had ever considered Myriah equal, that was it. Everyone knew that Daena had adored her brother Daeron and took all his sentiments. _All_ of them.

"And a good thing it is that the King allows it," an older woman cut in. Alaena Targaryen, newly released after twelve years of imprisonment, still had all her wits and will about her. She had started showing her support for Daeron and Myriah immediately after their arrival. "It's always so good to see a king and queen living in harmony, with no one between them."

Daena did not quite blush but she looked slightly uncomfortable. Myriah wondered whether she regretted her admittedly regrettable choice of pursuing an affair with Aegon. It might have cost her the Iron Throne, after all.

The court was already dividing to factions, just like it had been in Aegon's time.

"It is indeed," Aelinor said in an obvious attempt to soothe the tension. Then, she looked at her mother and smiled. "You know what Lelia told me? You know has the second sight." She paused for a more dramatic effect. "She told me that one day, I'd reign over the heart of a king."

"As if," Baelor muttered from his place at a near table where he leafed through an old book of armoury. "And besides, I bet she didn't say it."

"She did," Daenerys broke in. "I was there and heard her. She did say it."

"And I asked, "Over the _what_ of a king?" Aelinor provided. She and Baelor looked at each other and grinned cordially.

Myriah felt sick to her stomach. Her paleness made the women rush to stoke the fire and Daena smile contemptuously but at the moment, she did not care. In the almost one year long separation, her daughter had grown up, just like Baelor. For all her dislike and resentment of Aegon, he had not proven one of her worst fears wrong – he had not left her children uneducated. Aelinor was well-versed in her studies, gracious, showing regal bearing and tact already and beneath them, a glimpse of an iron will. It was too early to say but she might be possessed of the right character to be queen. It was the king that was the problem… With time, Myriah had accepted many of the peculiarities of the dragons but marrying brother to sister – her own children to one another – was something that still made her reel. In five or six years, Aelinor would be considered old enough to wed. _Baelor should take a wife before that_ , Myriah thought and her eyes were drawn to Lyselle, Alaena's pale, shy daughter, still unaccustomed to being around people after spending her entire life imprisoned under Aegon's orders.

* * *

But it wasn't Baelor's wedding that became the most pressing matter.

A few weeks after the coronation, things started settling down. Their new everyday life was about to begin. Myriah had worked out a schedule that might fit her just fine, despite her fears that their new responsibilities would mean that she would see Daeron and the children even more rarely than before. For now, she included some additional hours to oversee Aelinor and Maekar's studies, just to make sure that there were no lapses in their education.

"Did you find something?" Daeron asked one night, amused, as he rubbed her hands and feet to prevent an eventual return of her spells. "Or did you remember all the things you have forgotten since you were their age?"

"Why?" she asked, closing her eyes. "I only found Maekar's ability to concentrate," she said after a while. "He's able to keep going as if he has forgotten that I'm right there."

"That's a good thing," Daeron said, although the lack of the unconscious purring that she usually met the massage session with showed him that she did not share this opinion. "Isn't it?"

Myriah opened her eyes and looked at him. "I am not sure." Her voice sounded terribly small. "He's only nine, Daeron, and this clearness of purpose scares me."

She didn't dare mention her other fear, the one that had woken to life long before she had felt her youngest moving in her womb – the terror that Maekar would never be happy. She was now relieved of her panicky scare that he might be possessed of the Targaryen madness – but her inability of carrying her children to term made her other fears for him pierce more deeply. _His life might be one of blood, tears and torment_ , she heard Serenei of Lys in her head as she had heard her many times. And it had been one long before the accident. It had been so since the moment Aegon had dragged him out of their home all the way to the capitol as a measure of punishment for them. Maybe even before. Now, he had more difficulties having them in his life for constantly. Aelinor's swift adjustment only made the difference more evident. Mentioning it might open the old rift between them, the bitterness they had barely managed to leave behind, the accusations they had been throwing at each other with their behavior if not words… She was not ready to risk it.

Daeroх reached for more oil and started working on her ankles. "That was probably his way to get used to his new circumstances," he said. "And you know he's always liked having rules set and knowing the limit of what he was allowed to."

"Too bad that so many others don't share the sentiment," she muttered and he smiled before realizing that she was being serious.

* * *

One of the first projects the new Queen had undertaken was to bring to life an old idea that had been close to Queen Naerys' heart: an asylum for blind people. Her goodmother had enlisted Princess Elaena's help for the financial part and invited a group of famous builders to make and execute the plans. With her death, though, King Aegon had cut the whole enterprise off, so the barely laid foundation stood in the chosen spot near the sea, bare and unfinished, as dead as Naerys.

"The furniture should be nailed to the walls and floors," Rhaena said. "So they can learn their way around it. It can be done."

Myriah nodded. The success of their asylum for victims of the grey plague had instilled her with confidence that such institutions could be made to function in the long run. "Queen Naerys would have been so happy to see that we got the project up again," she said. "In less than a year, it can be running already. Yes?"

This "yes" was not addressed at Rhaena but Lelia who had just entered. "Daemon Targaryen wishes to speak to you, my lady," she said. Her voice was carefully neutral, her face bland but Myriah caught the slight shade of dislike her nursemaid was trying to hide. Lelia had disliked Daemon since the day of his birth and Daena – even before that. No one who worshipped the Young Dragon could merit Lelia's liking or even her indifference.

"To me?" the Queen asked, surprised. The hostility between Daena and herself had kept the boy mostly out of her sight, unlike Elaena's children who felt at home in her chambers, be it her old ones or the ones she occupied now in Maegor's Holdfast. She looked at Rhaena who shrugged.

"I have no idea," she said. Myriah's ladies immediately started whispering.

"Bring him in," the Queen told Lelia, still bewildered, trying to ignore the low voices all around the room.

When Daemon Blackfyre, as he wanted to be called, stood on the threshold, Myriah could not help but notice just how grown up and good-looking he was. One day, he'd be a handsome man. She smiled at seeing the panic that crossed his face when he realized that he had found himself in a hall full of women.

One day, indeed. Some good six or seven years later.

The boy braced himself, crossed the chamber and bent the knee to Myriah. He even managed to hide the resentment she had seen flashing in his eyes since their return. No doubt he disliked having to bow to the new Dornish queen. "Your Grace," he said.

"Ser Daemon," she replied. "Please take a seat."

He did so, avoiding her eyes. She asked a few polite questions about him, waiting for him to get to the purpose of his coming here. Which he did, with directness that, oddly enough, reminded her of Baelor. "I heard that they are preparing Silviana Reyne for her journey to King's Landing."

"Yes," Myriah confirmed, alerted. What did he mean by this? He hadn't come to her just to have this rumour confirmed, surely! "I've heard that she's a very lovely girl."

He nodded. "So have I," he confirmed, giving her a winning smile. "To my woe, the loveliest lady in Westeros is already wed and crowned. But yes, they say she's beautiful."

Myriah was too practiced in court games to let her shock show but inside, she was fuming. This went beyond the empty obligatory praises courtiers paid their Queen. This boy was intentionally using his charm on her – and she had to admit that it was working.

"I don't want to wed her," he said just when Myriah realized that those would be his next words.

* * *

"What are you going to do about Daemon?" Myriah asked as soon as they were alone.

The undertone in her voice made Daeron sigh and rub his forehead with a tired hand. "Not you too. It was bad enough that the whole castle is talking about that. Did he really say that he wanted to wed Daenerys?"

"Yes," Myriah said. "He even asked me to help him with you."

Daeron groaned. The stirring pot of trouble was filling steadily. "I'll smooth the things with the Reynes," he said. "Daemon _will_ wed her, have no doubt."

"It isn't enough."

He looked up from his place on the settee. Myriah was pacing before the fireplace, her eyebrows knitted together, her eyes glittering with alert. "Fine," he said. "Say what you will."

"I think you should send him away," she said. "Well, the other two as well, although I won't mind if you find a pretext to keep Brynden here. But Daemon has to go."

He was taken aback by her vehemence. Of course, he knew what she was afraid of but he had never thought that a daughter of Dorne would harbour such suspicion, resort to such harsh measures just because someone had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Daemon was just a boy – a talented and proud one but a boy nonetheless.

"Why?" he asked. "He's so young, for the Seven's sake. He isn't a threat to anyone and I can swear he doesn't even harbour such thoughts."

Myriah whirled about. "Can you swear the same thing about his mother?" she asked sharply. Daeron stayed silent and she smiled with bitter triumph. "So I thought." She paused. "He'll be only getting more dangerous, Daeron," she finally said. "Today, he tried to use his charm on me. In a few years, who could say who he's use it on? Send him away."

His silence was not one of consent and that irked her. "Don't look at me like this," she snapped. "I am not suggesting to make him beg his bread at the side of the road. Give him some land. Give him income to guarantee that he'd keep living in a style like the one our own sons live in. But send him away. He shouldn't be here where he can be easily made the focal point of every discontent with us. Send him away and let him be forgotten. Anything else might bring us many troubles in the future."

"No," Daeron stated flatly and she wanted to scream. Why couldn't she make him understand? He still saw Daemon as the charming, witty and generous boy he had known since his birth. Why couldn't she make him see the _danger_? Everything in Daemon's behavior pointed at him creating trouble to her children one day. And with Daena here to advise him, it was more than a distant possibility, it was a chilling probability. Myriah took a seat near the hearth and tried to get herself warm but tonight, there was no warmth to be had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story was started before The World of Ice and Fire was released, it still goes by my non-canon ideas, including the identity of Daemon's wife who in this story isn't Rohanne of Tyrosh.


	26. Dark Presentiments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented!

The first look at Daenerys' face told Myriah that the girl was nervous, although their ladies-in-waiting might not think so – Daenerys was becoming very good at guarding her face and emotions. But she was clearly anxious. Playing the lute did not help and she was so absent-minded that she pricked her finger four times in the space of less than an hour. Finally, Myriah took pity of the girl's mind and feelings and dismissed the women – all save for Alaena.

"Why isn't Lyselle with us?" Daenerys asked as soon as the three women were alone.

Alaena lifted a shoulder. "She was feeling unwell," she said, repeating the pretext she had given the Queen, although both Myriah and Daenaerys knew that the most likely reason for Lyselle's absence was the last weeks of court events following one after another. The girl still felt overwhelmed, exhausting so much energy and focus on how to behave according to the occasions and socialize that once the feasts and celebrations were over, she needed days of recovery, not doing anything that would strain her. Especially interacting with people. _She's going to learn_ , Myriah told herself. _Sometimes, she's so charming and witty that all the ambassadors and lords attending are taken with her._ _That's the queen she's going to make_. But then, invariably, some deeply seated fear took hold of the girl, making her shrink into herself, unable to take part into a conversation, let alone lead one, and fear crawled along Myriah's spine. What if that was the queen she was going to make? But there was no going back now. People expected that the two branches would be united. Breaking the betrothal would be a huge offense. And Lyselle's troubles could not do any lasting damage if she was surrounded by efficient people. She was not too proud to refuse help.

"What about you, child?" Alaena asked before Myriah could do so. "What troubles you?"

Daenerys looked down. To both of the older women's surprise, her fair skin blushed scarlet. "I heard some things about Prince Maron," she said. "About his mistress," she elaborated.

Myriah and Alaena shared a look. "Many great lords have mistresses before they wed," Alaena said guardedly.

_Not paramours_ , Myriah thought. _Not like in Dorne._ But of course, that was not the moment to say it. And it didn't matter anyway. Daenerys did it for her, despite not using the word.

"Not like this," she said.

Of course it wasn't like this. Her father had dismissed his mistresses in just a few years each. She was smart enough to make the difference.

"I heard that he's been with her since he was… younger than I am now," the girl said. "Does he love her?"

Once again, Myriah and Alaena shared a look. How did one answer such a question? Especially when they didn't know the answer themselves? How were they supposed to ease Daenerys' fears when they didn't know what the situation was? Maron's paramour was not a bastard or a woman without means as was often the case with paramours. Try as he might, Myriah could see only one reason for a highborn lady to become an official paramour, greatly reducing her chances for a husband of rank. Love. Not what her young goodsister needed to hear.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I suppose she loves him but I don't know about him."

"They've been together for many years and she's been with child twice already." Daenerys' voice was very scared. "What if he doesn't send her away when I arrive? He doesn't know me at all, you know…"

"She miscarried both times," Alaena said. "And even if she gives him a child, what of it? None of her children will inherit anything. His only heirs would be the ones of your womb."

Daenerys looked down. "I know, I know, but still…" She blushed again and halted. Recently, she had started turning into a strikingly lovely young woman, with all of Naerys' gentle charm but none of the frailness. Myriah sympathized with her apprehensions, remembering her own time in Dorne when all that she knew of the Targaryen prince she would marry one day were rumours. But then, another thought flashed through her mind, pushing all of her gentler feelings away. "Daenerys," she said sharply. "Has Daemon told you something?"

"No," Daenerys replied all too quickly and Myriah sighed with both relief and fear. She was trying to think that the frictions between Daemon and her own sons were only temporary but she didn't believe it. Especially in the last year, when Baelor had reached majority and the number of honours and responsibilities he received had started growing steadily, the tensions had started turning into hostility with frightening speed. Daeron still insisted that Daemon would grow out of it. Myriah was not so sure and now Daenerys' awkwardness told her that the boy had said something to her. Daenerys' fondness of him was really unfortunate.

"It'll fade once she's wedded and bedded," Daeron said confidently later when she relayed the conversation to him. She might have as well not bothered at all! "I would have sent her to Dorne right now if there weren't still so many things to be done."

Myriah started busying herself with looking through her schedule for the next day. He was exhausted, this much was clear. Another long day with the Small Council. He had left before she woke up and emerged from their hall when the supper in the great hall had been already halfway through. Now she regretted that she had brought up the question at all.

"Say something," her husband suddenly snapped. "I cannot stand it when you're so desperately disagreeing."

She was stunned. "But I didn't say a word!"

Daeron glared. "And you think that after all those years I actually need you to say something to know what you think?"

She folded the paper up and looked at him. "I think we should just send Daenerys there and face the music right now. But you already know this."

"I do," he sighed. "I've barely started to heal the wounds inflicted by my father, Myriah. If I send her there now, tension will only rise. Time to smooth the hostilities would be beneficial. Let's not make the lords think that…"

"That you're giving Dorne too much."

"I did not say that."

"And you think that after all those years I actually need you to say something to know what you think?"

She was really proficient in infuriating her peaceful husband. She knew that this was what he had been going to say because people said so. Not because he thought it. And still, she could not help herself. "Why don't you send me away if you're so keen on pleasing them? And don't forget to send our son away with me. You know, the Dornish looking one. I can assure you, that'll make some of them _extremely_ happy. Then, you can officially proclaim Daemon your heir. Because he's growing such a big head that I cannot think of another explanation of your patience."

"That's enough!"

Myriah gasped and made an involuntarily step back when he strode towards her. His anger disappeared at the sight of her fear. He sighed and stroked her cheek. "I don't understand why Daemon worries you so much," he said. "He isn't a bad boy. He was just influenced by the way court was before. He'll grow out of it."

No, he couldn't. That was one of the things she loved about him – that he was a man who tried to always act from place of goodness and honour. But that was one of the things that scared her where Daemon was concerned. The boy was a danger to their own children – and Daeron couldn't see that. She was well aware that he thought her meddling and obtrusive about that and she tried not to talk about her dark presentments but it didn't always work. Enough talk about Daemon for tonight.

"I suppose you may be right," she murmured. _Or not._ Either way, she was sorry for bringing the boy into their parlour. Daeron was weary and because of that, irritable. He didn't need another discussion with both of them rehashing the old arguments. She held his hand against her cheek. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "Let's just have some rest."

Perhaps later, she would get something more than rest. With the passing of years, the wild passion of their youth had faded replaced by familiarity and openness which nonetheless left her filled with the same desire and longing. But when she saw how absent-minded he was, what a great effort it took him to just keep his eyes open, the dark smudges under his eyelids, she realized that this, too, was not an option for tonight, so she rose and accompanied him to the bedchamber where she helped him undress and find his much needed rest. She had already decided that the next day, she would let him catch some more sleep. The Small Council could wait for a while.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of a Daeron-centric oneshot just popped into my head one day, so here it is. Bad thing is, it turned out not be a oneshot – that happens to me pretty often.


End file.
